How It All Started
by The-Deckers
Summary: Why would Steve let his dad and friends become involved in his dangerous assignments? We wondered that too! This story takes place before the series begins, but we have moved them to the beach house because it's such a lovely place. STORY COMPLETE!
1. There's Only One 'i' in Hypothesis

**How It All Started**

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Disclaimer:  This is a work of fan fiction written for fun and not for profit by the members of The Sloan's Deck Writing Group (The Deck).  All DM characters are property of CBS/Viacom.  All new characters are property of The Deck.

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**Chapter One**

Steve took the last few things off the dining table and put them carefully on one of the occasional tables nearby. Then he moved into the kitchen grabbed two cans of soda, a bag of chips and a donut, carefully balanced them all the way back to the table and sat down with a sigh.

Just by his feet was a brown box full of files and once Steve had made sure that his goodies wouldn't get in the way he hauled it out and up on to the surface in one movement. For a moment he just stared at the contents, he hadn't realised just how much stuff he had brought home.

Ten minutes later he had the most relevant information spread out in front of him, a tablet of paper and a pencil by his left hand and was deep in concentration.

Mark looked out of the kitchen and saw his son's head bent over the table and all his doodads on the wrong surface. He smiled and returned to his chores, he knew that Steve would put them back when he was finished, and then he would put them all in their right positions once his son was in bed.

The pasta dish he was preparing was still lots of separate ingredients and so, whistling a tune that was recognisable only to himself, he began to read through the recipe that he had managed to get at work during the week.

_"Dottore Sloan, you are an angelo, I don'a know how I will evah say grazie for alla you've-a done. Ifa there is anything, anything at alla." Lucia Puchellini_ _wiped away a tear that had fallen from her eye, and smiled. She had arrived from __Italy__ a month earlier to live with her son and his family. Her eyes had cataracts so bad that she had been unable to see anything properly and Roberto had rushed her to see his own physician, Mark._

_One of the first things Roberto had done was get his mother medical insurance, and, because she'd had no treatment or diagnosis in __Italy__, she was able to be treated almost immediately. Now, thanks to Mark, and the specialist he had recommended, she had a bright future ahead of her, living with her family, being able to see her grandchildren grow up, and travel round the new country she was going to call home._

_Mark had whispered to her, "Your son told me you have a famous lasagna recipe, I think a copy of that would be payment enough."_

_The lady had thrown her hands in the air in horror, "I have a-never told anyone, not even a-Sylvia knows." Sylvia was Roberto's wife, a lovely lady, but definitely not Italian, and not, it seemed, privy to all her acquired family's secrets either._

_Mark had just smiled, finished checking his patient over and then left. Two hours later a young nurse had brought him a piece of paper with a scratchily written recipe on it._

_Signor Sloan,_

_Please excuse my writing, this is the first time I have used it in five years …_

_Mark had been deeply touched, and he planned to make two meals, one for himself, Steve and his extended family, and the other ready to take to his new found friend the next day._

For just over an hour the Sloan household was quiet and productive. Steve made three pages of notes which meant he could actually get rid of about six files when he went to work the next day, and Mark had a very satisfying, appetising smell wafting from the kitchen as he made his way into the living room.

"Are you all right, Son?" Mark looked over Steve's shoulder and reached out to pick up one of the sheets of writing. 

A large hand smacked down on the paper, "Ah ah ah, oh, no, you don't!" Steve kept his hand on the paper, "I'm fine, thank you. Me cop, you doctor, ok?"

"Sometimes you're just no fun!" Mark picked up an apple out of the dish and polished it absent-mindedly on his shirt. Steve carried on reading through a page of closely typed information and after a couple of minutes, by which time Mark could see his face in the piece of fruit, he couldn't resist any longer. "Is that supposed to say hypothesis?"

"What?"

"That," Mark pointed a finger at Steve's hand written notes, "hypothesis only has one i."

"Dad!" 

Mark was saved by the sound of the doorbell and with a chuckle he left the room, descended the two steps and smiled at the sight of Jack Stewart waiting to be let in.

"Hey, Mark, that's a smell that takes me back." Jack smiled and sniffed the air. "I think this will go well with whatever it is you have made." He handed his host a bottle of red wine and, when Mark indicated, he made his way into the main house.

"Hi, Steve, what are you doing?" Once again a hand moved towards the notes on the table, and once again Steve beat him to it.

"No, Jack, leave it. I know where everything is, go sit on the deck, I'll only be about a half hour."

"You'll need to be less time than that or the Lasagna di Signora Puchellini will be fit for nothing but ceiling tiles."

"Well, if everybody would leave me alone, I would get finished much quicker, Dad, stop it!" Steve saw his father and Jack exchange glances and he knew they were just itching to see what he was doing.

The two doctors moved out onto the deck, and Steve tried to put them out of his mind so that he could regain his concentration. The case he was working on had been ongoing for about six months. So far three, seemingly unrelated, male victims had been found, their hands tied behind them, on their knees with a bullet through their brains from the same gun. Steve knew that the velocity of the shot should have sent the men to the floor, but they had all been found in the position of execution and that was where the similarities ended.

All of them were in their forties, but none of them were the same age. Two were married; one with children, one without, the third had been single. Two of them had used the same bank, but not the same branch. They had been reasonably comfortably off, but that hadn't been apparent from their lifestyles. They had all worked, one as a teacher, one a florist and the other designed computer programmes.

Every avenue Steve had gone up resulted in a dead end. He couldn't find anything, other than the cause of death, which was the same in all three cases. He was just starting in on the educational records for the umpteenth time, having read them all each time a body was found, when once again his concentration was broken by the door bell. Knowing that his dad was still outside with Jack, Steve slammed his pencil down on the table and headed for the front of the house.

"Hi, Steve, ooh, something smells good, what is it?"

"Lasagna di Signora Pu something or other."

"You're kidding, Mark got the recipe, why the sly old dog, however did he do that? The last I heard she refused to give it to him." Steve shut the door behind their guest and followed her back into the living room.  "Oh, someone is busy, what are you working on?"

Because Amanda was in front of Steve, this time he wasn't able to get to the pages of writing first. She picked up the top sheet and began to scan over Steve's notes. "I know about this, I had lunch with Marti Redman yesterday, she works at the county coroner's office and she was talking about her boss Gavin Tindall, he did the autopsy on Mr Little on Wednesday … Um, Steve."

"Yeah, what." He knew he sounded ungracious, but that was because he was. 

"There's only one i in hypothesis."

"I know, thank you very much, that has already been pointed out to me!"

"Amanda, is that you?" Mark came into the room as he heard the voices. "Well, now we can sit down and eat. Steve, I set the table on the deck so that your work didn't need to be disturbed, maybe we can help you with it … what? What did I say?" Mark saw the look on his son's face and his words sort of petered out. He moved into the kitchen and began to hand the various dishes to Amanda, Jack and Steve and they were soon all sat round the table enjoying a wonderful meal.

"It's not that I didn't appreciate your help before…" Steve had finished his first helping of lasagna and was waiting for his dad to bring the dish out of the oven again. He was the first with an empty plate and so he knew that he would be sitting for a while.

"But you don't want it now? I see, so you get rid of all the difficult cases, with our help and then close the door in our faces, well, that's gratitude for you … these young whippersnappers, no appreciation of what their elders and betters do for them." Mark had put on his old man face and voice and Jack and Amanda were soon laughing with him. Steve on the other hand was not amused.

"Dad, I want to make lieutenant some day, hopefully soon, and having my old man, a third year medical student and a doctor in the back of my car every time I arrive at a crime scene isn't gonna help my chances, ok?"

"Well, ok, but … "

"But what?" Steve looked at his father warily.

"But what are you working on right now?"


	2. The Way to a Man's Files Is Through His ...

**How It All Started – Chapter Two**

**The Way to a Man's Files Is Through His Stomach**

Steve met his father's eyes pointedly. "Dinner," he answered sweetly. "Right now I am working on dinner." He rose to his feet to show that the topic of conversation was closed. "Can I get anyone any more lasagna?"

_Steve tapped his pencil lightly against his blotter, studying the screen in front of him. Transferring his notes from yesterday seemed to be taking a long time. Instead the evening seemed to keep playing through his head, over and over…_

Jack tried to hide a smirk. "Subtle," he offered approvingly.

"Yeah, well, subtlety gets me nowhere with this crowd. Is that a 'yes' to the lasagna?"

"I wouldn't mind." Jack hefted himself to his feet. "In fact, let me give you a hand."

Steve nodded. "Even more subtle. Serving lasagna is definitely a two man job." 

_One "i" in hypothesis…he clicked on spellcheck. He could have asked, he supposed, but he hadn't been in any mood to let them know that he wasn't immediately sure which "i" to eliminate…_

Jack shuffled his hands into his pockets and followed close on his heels. "Look, Steve, we're just curious, is all - it's good mental exercise for me and Amanda - keeps us sharp for medical practice."

"Uh huh. And you don't have enough medical mysteries of your own to keep you - er - sharp?" Steve located the potholders and reached for the oven door.

_Steve typed in a list of the victims names and ordered them by date…_

"Of course we do…" Jack smiled with lazy charm, thoughtfully offering him the metal spatula sitting nearby in the spoon rest. "But this gives us a change - you know, brightens up our perspective."

"What a good idea. Bring along that trivet, will you?" Steve manoeuvred the pan out of the oven and used his shoulder to slam the door closed again. "Maybe I'll stop by Community General and consult on a couple of medical cases this week too. Wouldn't hurt for me to keep a little sharp."

Jack lost his smile. "Steve, you have no idea what a scary thought that is."

Steve nodded. "Then you understand my position perfectly." He started back to the deck, carefully toting the pan of lasagna. 

_He added the victims' personal information and crime scene locations, stared at them, trying to see a connection he might have missed earlier…_

Jack grabbed the trivet and followed, hustling a little to keep up. "It's not the same thing!" he protested. "You need formal medical education to diagnose a patient!"

"Oh?" Steve met his gaze blandly. "And you don't think that a couple of Criminal Justice courses come in handy when putting a case together?"

"Well, of course they do." Jack's eyes danced mischievously. "That's why we have you."

Steve tossed him a sour look. "Glad I could be of use. Could you get the - ?"

_The words on the screen blurred together and he paused to rub his eyes. Rough night…couldn't remember how much sleep he'd actually gotten…_

Jack hurried around to get the door, just warming to his argument. "Come on, it's a lot different, you've got to admit. You diagnosing a patient puts a life at risk - our talking about your cases doesn't." He stepped onto the deck and arranged the trivet on a nearby table. 

"Really." Steve gingerly placed the hot pan on top of it, his voice deceptively pleasant. "So you wouldn't call, say, getting caught in an explosion, for example, 'putting lives at risk'?" He folded his arms and waited.

_Okay. He glanced back at his notes. Actual recorded physical evidence…_

Jack looked cornered for a second, then he cleared his throat. "I - don't remember ever - "

"I think," Mark interrupted helpfully, "that he's talking about that teensy weensy little explosion that Amanda and I found ourselves in  - really, I think you make much too much of that, Steve." 

"Great." Steve smiled a tight smile. "Can I use that in your eulogy?" He picked up the spatula and dug at the lasagna with more force than was absolutely necessary. 

"Oh, now, Steve - " Amanda got hastily to her feet to rescue the lasagna, putting her hand over his on the spatula handle and keeping it there until he reluctantly surrendered it to her. "Mark is right. That wasn't anything. Why, my clothes weren't even damaged."

_The meticulous list fuzzed together and Steve threw down the pencil and spun his chair away from the computer to give his eyes a break._

"I can't tell you how much better that makes me feel." He snatched Jack's plate off of the table and held it while she scooped out a generous, steaming square, then smacked it back down in front of him. "Dad?"

"Uh, yes - I wouldn't mind a - " Mark winced as his plate disappeared abruptly from in front of him, then winced again as it reappeared with a large hunk of lasagna and a resounding clatter. "Steve - " he grabbed for the moving wrist as it reached next for Amanda's plate and raised his eyebrows with a slight smile. "Go a little easier on the china, would you?"

Steve paused and met his eyes, then jerked his head in a nod, some of the tension leaving him. "Sorry. Amanda?" He offered her her plate.

_He picked up the pencil again, twirling it mindlessly between his fingers. Not one of his more gracious evenings…_

Amanda shook her head. "Oh, no thank you - it was wonderful, but I've had enough. Where's your plate, Steve?" Steve handed over his plate and watched her cut an oversized slice. She smiled winningly at him. "How does that look?" 

Steve grunted noncommittally. 

Amanda's smile broadened demurely as she scooped some extra cheese over it. "You know, Steve," she murmured soothingly, scraping around for a little extra meat sauce, "we only thought you might like to _talk_ about it - you seem very tense."

"That's true, Son." Mark cut a forkful of his lasagna, his face guileless. "You do seem tense. It might help to just talk through it."

"That's right." Jack discreetly topped off Steve's wineglass. "Better for your blood pressure. And there's no danger to anybody in talking."

Steve didn't answer right away, one side of his mouth twisted in a sardonic curl, his eyes on Amanda, who was ladling extra tomato sauce over his portion. He knew he was being played, but…

_But.__ But the truth was that talking could help sometimes. After all these months of picking relentlessly through the same information, he was only too aware that he was numbed to some of the details - that subtleties could be lost to him. A fresh eye, a fresh ear, could catch something that he was no longer sensitised to. With a sigh, he looked back at his notes._

Amanda held his plate out to him. "How's that?"

Steve looked at it. "Just talk," he repeated slowly.

Amanda opened her eyes at him. "Of course!"

"You mean just conversation. That means that nobody is going to start mysteriously showing up at the crime scene, or find reasons to chat up witnesses or go snooping around and getting underfoot of the investigation."

Mark looked shocked. "Now, would we do that?"

Steve barked a short laugh. 

Mark cleared his throat. "Well, maybe we have, once or twice…but - "

"Promise."

"What's that?"

"If I tell you about this case then this is as far as it goes - talk. No creeping around trying to solve it. Just conversation. That's it. Promise me."

"Now, Steve, you know I'd never do anything to jeopardize - "

"We promise," Jack cut in abruptly, watching Steve's face. "Right, Amanda?"

Amanda nodded vigorously. "Oh, cross my heart!"

Steve lifted his brows at Mark. 

Mark held up his hands in surrender. "Just talk," he vowed. "Unless, of course, there is some medical insight that we can offer…?"

Steve frowned. He had an uncomfortable suspicion that that was somehow leaving a much bigger loophole than was immediately evident, but…

_But.__ There was that word again. Probably he shouldn't have been talking about it. Probably it had been a bad idea. Probably he would live to regret it…_

"Okay," he said at last, taking his plate from Amanda and settling back in his chair. "I'll give you the basics. We have three murders, all males in their forties, all done execution style, all with the same calibre gun, but that's where the similarities seem to stop. They - "

Amanda gasped, her eyes like saucers. "A serial killer?"

"Your friend Marti Redman neglected to tell you?" Steve's voice was tinged with sarcasm. 

"She's not allowed to - I've never been involved in a case with a serial killer before!"

Steve abruptly lowered his fork. "Okay, this is what I mean. This is not a game, and it's not some intellectual puzzle! People are being killed and that's bad enough - I'd like it if none of them turned out to be any of you!"

_He shuddered, bouncing the pencil idly on top of the notepad. Just great. Now if they got carried away and anything happened to any of them, he had nobody to blame but himself. Stupid, Sloan. Stupid, stupid, stupid…_

Amanda flushed. "That came out wrong. I know that - those poor men. Did they have wives? Or - or children?"

Steve nodded, eyeing his lasagna with suddenly diminished interest. "Two had wives. One had two children. One didn't seem to have any kind of a steady romantic relationship." 

_He stared at the notes. No consistency in height or colouring, body type or occupation…_

There was a brief silence, and Mark stepped in to bridge it in a quiet matter of fact tone. "What else can you tell us?"

Steve abandoned his lasagna and took a sip of his wine instead. "Not a whole lot. We have a profile, but it's more based on general statistics than anything specific to this case. Since over ninety percent of serial killers are white males between the ages of twenty-five and fifty, we're focusing our search there for now and looking for new links."

Jack gave a low whistle. "Ninety percent? You mean, guys like you and me?"

Steve managed a faint, wry smile. "Well, not exactly like you and me, hopefully - unless there's something you want to tell me?"

Amanda ruffled her brows. "You mean there are no female serial killers? Or black, or Asian?"

Steve sighed. "Yeah, there are, Amanda - it's just a statistically small percentage, and we have to start somewhere."

_Not that it was much of a place to start…he'd run the demographic through the databases of known offenders time and time again with no promising results. But serial killers could remain undetected for years…_

Amanda stopped toying with her salad, her face troubled. "Well, what else do serial killers have in common?"

Steve shook his head. "A sense of ritual - lots of times they collect trophies from their victims…" He trailed off, poking a fork at his lasagna, then pushing it aside. "And one thing more. They never just stop. They may seem to if they die or move on to someplace else, but as long as they're alive, they never stop killing - never." His eyes travelled from one to the other bleakly. "There's always another victim. It's just a matter of time."

_And they were running out of time. As long as this case remained unsolved, as long as he kept coming up empty, people were at risk. There would be another murder. He glanced down at his hands in surprise, realized that he had broken his pencil in two. He stared at it for a moment, then tossed the pieces aside._

_"Hey, Sloan!"__ He glanced up as the desk sergeant dropped a message on the desk in front of him. "This just came in for you. 'Nother killing - looks like the same MO."_

_Steve picked up the message and stared at it, hit the "save" button on his computer screen. The names listed there seemed to gaze back at him, reproaching him. He hastened to shut the file down and grabbed his jacket. "I'm on my way."_


	3. How Many Friends does it take to find a ...

**How It All Started – Chapter Three**

**How Many Friends does it take to find a Clue?**

"Grrrr."  

Mark cast a concerned look in his son's direction, but carried on preparing dinner.  He knew Steve was thoroughly frustrated with himself and his job.  There had been four murders in six months, and with the most recent victim, a twenty-six-year-old single mom who'd left behind a two-year-old son to be cared for by his absentee father, except for the positioning of the body and the means of death, the few seeming similarities that did exist were now shattered.  

"Augh!"  Steve jabbed the pencil he held in his fist into the tablet beside him hard enough to break the lead and leave a dent through several sheets of paper.

This time, Mark looked at his son with something more than concern.  "Steve, that's enough," he said sternly.  "Take a break.  Go set the table or something.  Jack and Amanda are going to be here soon."

"But, Dad . . . "

"No 'but's."  Mark said firmly.  "You're too frustrated to think clearly, so there's no point in plodding along any further right now.  Besides, that table has survived two teenagers, your battles with algebra, your sister's English term papers, and more Thanksgivings, Christmases, and birthdays than I can count without so much as a scratch.  I'll not have you cracking the glass now."

Mark could see the little muscle in Steve's jaw jump, and he knew his son was trying to choose between a full-blown tantrum and quiet compliance.  Smiling slightly, he told his son, "I'll even keep them from nagging you to let them help, this time."

Steve couldn't help smiling back.  He took a deep breath and let it out, and he felt some of the tension leak out of his body.  "Thanks, Dad," he said.  "Could we maybe eat out on the deck again?  I need to have one more go at it before I go to bed tonight, and it would be easier if it were left undisturbed."

Mark nodded.  "That would be fine, Son," he assured Steve.  "Maybe we can help, too . . . _if_ you want us to," Mark added hastily as the little muscle in Steve's jaw started jumping again.

~~~~~

"Steve?"

He just sat glaring sullenly at the ocean.

"Steve!"

"What?  Oh, Amanda, yeah, what do you want?"

For a moment, she just stared at him.  The tone hadn't been particularly rude or unfriendly, just . . . absent, but the words had clearly told her she was interrupting some serious thoughts.

"I just wanted to know if you'd like another pork chop or some more vegetables while it's out of the oven," Amanda said.  She had volunteered to serve the seconds because she had already eaten her fill.

"No, no I don't," he said and shook his head.

Again, the tone was not unpleasant, but the words were far from polite.  Amanda shrugged and headed back into the kitchen with the platter of stuffed pork chops, content to let the matter slide.  Steve was clearly preoccupied, and he wasn't trying to be hurtful, but as she came back out onto the deck, she heard Jack asking, "Hey, Steve, what gives?"

"What do you mean?" Steve asked, slightly irritated.

"Well, you've hardly said a word all evening.  You didn't even say hello to me, and you were just really rude to Amanda," the young doctor told him.  "Unless she has done something to offend you, I think you owe her an apology."

"Jack, it's all right," Amanda said.  Turning to Steve she said, "I can tell something is bothering you, Steve, it's fine, really.  Don't worry about it."

Steve frowned slightly, and then his expression changed as he replayed the conversation he had just had with the lovely pathologist, and he realized Jack was right.  

"Yeah, Jack," he said.  "Something is bothering me, but that doesn't excuse rudeness.  Guys, I'm sorry.  It's just this damned case!" he huffed, suddenly frustrated, and tossed his napkin on the table.  

"It's been six months since I was first assigned to Jason Fletcher's murder, and all I have managed to do is collect three more bodies.  I'm about ready to ask the captain to reassign me, because at the rate I am going, this guy could continue killing for years, and I would come up with exactly zilch."

He stood abruptly and moved over to lean on the rail and stare out at the waves.  Immediately realizing that with his dad and friends on the deck, he wouldn't have the privacy to contemplate things that he usually did when he watched the sea, he turned around and strode deliberately into the house.  As he stood at the dining table, all his notes and files on the four murders stared back at him, mocking him.  Clutching the back of the chair in front of him in a white-knuckle grip, he tried to forestall the urge to sweep everything off the table and onto the floor, and he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Let's talk about it, Son," he heard his father's concerned voice say.  "The four of us together might be able to generate some new ideas.  If we still come up with nothing, well, if you do have the captain reassign you, at least you'll know you have done all you can."

Steve bit his tongue to stop a cutting remark, but then it registered that his father's voice, while full of care and affection, had revealed none of his avid curiosity.  He felt the tension drain out of him as he realized that his dad really wanted to help him feel better and wasn't just looking for another crack at a perplexing intellectual puzzle.  

Sighing, Steve nodded, "Ok, let's do that, but you guys finish your meal first, and let me get organized in here."

~~~~~

Half an hour later, with the leftovers in the refrigerator and the dishwasher running quietly in the kitchen, the four friends sat at the table, and Steve briefed his father, Jack, and Amanda on the case once more.

"Victim number one, Jason Fletcher, schoolteacher, age 45, married with two kids, killed January 21 in a parking lot about four blocks from the high school where he worked in Tarzana," he began reeling off the facts that he knew by heart now as his father and two friends took copious notes on the long legal pads he had given them.  

"Do you think one of his students might have done it?"  Jack asked.

Steve shook his head.  "Fletcher taught special ed.  He dealt with students with below average IQs.  Most of them read at about a second grade level and can't add two digit numbers, so I doubt they could have formed the intent to commit this crime, let alone carried it out, positioned the body, and removed all traces of evidence.  He also coached wrestling, and it's possible one of the wrestlers was involved, but all of their alibis checked out."

Jack nodded, Steve paused a minute in case there were other questions, and when none were forthcoming he moved on

"Victim number two," he recited, "was Lazaro Coronado, a florist, age 43, unattached, killed March 24 near a dumpster in an alley about half way between his shop in Reseda and the deli where he usually went for lunch.  We couldn't find a single suspect in this case.  He had no enemies as far as we could tell.  We must have done over a hundred interviews, but we couldn't find a single unhappy client, unpaid supplier, outraged competitor, or disgruntled employee.  The guy was truly loved by all who knew him."

"What about a jilted lover?" Mark asked.

"No joy there, either, Dad.  He seemed to live an almost monastic life."  Steve smiled somewhat sadly.  "He was really a great guy.  Three times a year, he contacted the coroner's office and arranged a Christian burial and donated a funeral spray for an indigent or a John or Jane Doe, and he didn't even write it off on his taxes."

Steve was quiet a moment more, and the friends could tell he really wanted to make the person who killed such a decent man pay for the crime.  Finally taking a deep breath, Steve went on.

"Victim number three, David Little, computer programmer, age 44, married, no children, killed May 15 in the Woodland Hills park where he liked to go running.  He worked from home and sent his programs to his employers on disk."  

Steve frowned slightly, remembering something that looked like a lead at the time, and said, "Little was involved in a dispute with the neighbour next door over a damaged fence, and the neighbour had a son whom Fletcher had caught selling marijuana at school during lunch, but the neighbour had an alibi for both murders, and we couldn't link him to Coronado at all."

"If he worked from home, he might not have had as many friends and acquaintances as the other victims," Amanda said.  "Maybe you could start by looking more closely into his murder.  Get a list of people who had access to him, and see who among those names you could connect to the others."

Steve shook his head.  "It's not that simple," he said.  "Until a year ago, he taught a couple of university classes.  Also, he's apparently one of the best in his field, and several technology journals have done articles on him.  He was featured in the _LA Times_ and a few other major metropolitan newspapers over the past year, too."

Amanda nodded and sighed defeatedly.

"Victim number four, Vivian Donovan, librarian, age 26, single mother of a two-year-old, killed June 23 at a construction site on the campus of the California State University at Northridge just a few minutes walk from where she worked," Steve said, sounding almost depressed.  Murder in general was not a pleasant subject, but it was particularly disturbing when the victim had young children like Vivian Donovan or when he was especially decent like Lazaro Coronado. 

"She was a reference librarian at the Undergraduate Library.  From what I understand, she was a particularly gifted student, and when the position opened up just as she finished her master's degree, she was a shoo-in for the job."

"Isn't Northridge out of your jurisdiction, Son?" Mark asked.

Steve nodded.  "It's actually in Devonshire Division, but they kicked it over to me as soon as they matched the MO to my other three victims."

After glancing through his notes one more time, Steve sat back and watched as his 'assistants' reread the information they had written down as he was talking.  Just from the tablets on the table, he could tell he had brought three different perspectives to the case.  Amanda wrote her notes in long paragraphs in a fluid, elegant hand, and underlined key ideas as she went.  Jack had clumps of information scattered across the page with underlined headings and bulleted details underneath.  His dad had turned the paper sideways and made a timeline with the murder date and name of each victim above a tick mark on the line and the other relevant information below it.  As he watched them think, Steve realized that if the three of them with their unique ways of working couldn't come up with something to help him, there was no point in passing the case on to someone else, because that detective wouldn't be able to find any leads either.

Suddenly Jack gave a wide grin at the same time as Mark frowned deeply and Amanda delicately wrinkled her brow.

"What?" Steve asked excitedly. "What am I missing?"

They gave him three different answers at the same time.

"I know how he's deciding when to kill."

"He's stepping up the killings, not waiting so long."

"I've figured out how he's choosing his victims."

The three men turned to Amanda, Mark with a proud smile, Jack with a jealous frown, and Steve with an anxious look, because they all knew if she was right, she had made the most important break in the case so far.

"Well?" Steve demanded when she continued to study her notes.

"Just double checking," she said as she drew some circles and lines on her pad.  Then she turned it around for all of them to see.

"The first victim was named Fletcher, the second was a florist.  The second victim was named Coronado, the third was a computer expert.  The third victim was named Little, the fourth was a librarian.  The fourth victim was named Donovan, the fifth will be . . . "

"A dogcatcher," Steve suggested just as Mark and Jack said, "A doctor" in stereo on either side of him.  After a short, uneasy silence, Amanda said, "Or a doorman, or a dowser, or a double agent for that matter.  Whatever he chooses, it will begin with the letters d-o because he is using the surname of one victim to choose the profession of the next."

"It is a little strange," Mark said, "but it's too consistent to be a coincidence, and I do think the next victim will be a doctor.  All of the others have been professionals.  That pattern would rule out doormen, dowsers, and dogcatchers, and I think even our killer would have a bit of trouble finding a double agent to kill."

Steve nodded, sighed, and ran a hand through his hair.  Studiously avoiding his father's comment about the next victim's profession because he knew if he acknowledged it all three of the other people at the table would want to volunteer as the bait in a trap set for the killer, he turned to Jack and asked, "How do you know when he is going to kill again?"

"I don't know when he will kill again, but I know how he's deciding the date."

"What's the difference?"

"Let me explain.  When I was a kid, I used to run numbers for my old man," Jack said sheepishly.  "He used a simple substitution code so if the cops ever got their hands on any of his documents, they wouldn't be able to prove what they were.  I could read that code as easily as I could read English."

Jack had been writing on his tablet as he'd been talking, and as he finished, he turned it around to show the others.  The numbers one through twenty-six ran down the side of the page with the letters of the alphabet in reverse order listed beside them.  The letter F as in Fletcher fell beside number twenty-one.  C for Coronado was beside number twenty-four, L as in Little was at fifteen, and D for Donovan was next to twenty-three.

"So, you can't predict it," Steve said frowning, "but chances are the next victim will die on the number of the day represented by the first letter of their surname."

"Right, in reverse alphabetical order."

"So, you and Dad need to watch your backs on the eighth, and Amanda should be careful on the twenty-fifth, if she's right about it being a doctor."

Jack nodded.  "That's right."

Steve propped his elbows on the table and held his head in both hands.  "If it's really that simple, why didn't I see it?" he moaned shaking his head.

He felt a gentle squeeze on his shoulder and heard his dad say, "You were looking for things the victims had in common, like you were trained to do," Mark said.  "You weren't solving a puzzle like Amanda, Jack, and me."

"I still should have spotted it."

"I disagree, Son, but we don't have time to argue the point," Mark said.  "He's going to kill again soon, and we need to stop him."

"I know he's accelerating his pattern, Dad," Steve said.  "The first two killings were sixty-two days apart, but the third one came only fifty-two days after the second, and this one has only been forty days since the one before it, and _we_ don't need to do anything, _I _need to stop him."

"But, Steve . . . "

"No, Dad," Steve interrupted, realizing with a sudden dread that Community General Hospital was right in the middle of the killer's territory.  "I appreciate the help more than you can imagine."  He smiled at Jack and Amanda to include them and, hoping none of his 'helpers' would get any more bright ideas about catching the killer, he said, "I really do, but just because doctor begins in d-o doesn't mean I am going to let one of you be the bait in a sting operation to get this guy."

"Ok, Son, we can respect that, and we appreciate your concern," Mark said amiably, "but for the record, we're all safe anyway."

"How can you possibly know that?" Steve asked, glowering.

"It has to do with exactly how he's accelerating the pattern.  Would you like me to explain?"

Steve frowned.  Apparently there was something else he had missed.  Folding his arms and smiling, he said, "Ok, Dad, explain for me, but don't get any reckless ideas about helping me catch the killer while you're doing it."

"Well, the first gap was just over two months, and the next one was just under two months," Mark said, and when Steve nodded, he went on.  

"The next gap was just over one month.  I have a feeling the next one will slightly less than a month.  When he's done with this more or less than a month pattern he's going to go to more or less than a fortnight, then more or less than a week, if he gets that far."

"And the next victim will be a doctor," Amanda said.

"Or a dogcatcher or a double agent or a dowser for that matter," Steve replied.

"Come on, Steve," Jack said, "the first occupation most people think of that starts with the letters d-o is doctor."

"I said dogcatcher," Steve reminded him.

"All the other victims were educated professionals," his father reminded him, "but like I said, Jack, Amanda, and I are safe anyway, Son."

Steve barely managed to suppress a growl of irritation.  "Ok, how do you know you are safe?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"Because with Jack's reverse alphabet, Bentley is too late for his acceleration pattern and Stewart and Sloan are much too early," Mark said beaming.

"And you don't think he'd change his pattern to eliminate a meddling physician or three?" Steve asked dangerously, not liking the glint in his father's eye and suddenly remembering the huge loophole he had sensed in their agreement to 'just talk' prior to the most recent murder.

Amanda smiled sweetly.  "If you're right, the next victim will be a dog catcher anyway.  Why worry?"

This time, Steve failed to suppress his growl and the few unpleasant words that came with it.  His only other reply to Amanda's comment was to pack up his things and carry them down to his apartment without so much as a goodnight.

~~~~~

Steve stared at his list.  He'd been staring at it for an hour.  At first, his eyes had begun to hurt, then it had spread to his temples, into his jaw, and around to the back of his head.  The list had still told him nothing.

He'd started the list when he'd called Rosemary Fletcher, the wife of the first victim, to assure her that he was still working on the case and to see if there was anything else she could tell him that might be of use.  She had told him she couldn't think of anything else, but wondered if he knew what had happened to her late husband's headache medication.  It wasn't among his personal effects, and when the family doctor had called to express his condolences, he had also asked Rosemary to bring the medication in to him at her earliest convenience so it could be safely disposed of.

A couple of phone calls later, first from Rosemary to the doctor to authorize the release of information, and then from the doctor to Steve to discuss Jason Fletcher's medical condition, and Steve had started his list.  Jason Fletcher was on an antidepressant called amitriptyline to control his chronic tension headaches.

Within twenty minutes, Steve had discovered that Lazaro Coronado was missing his inhaler.  He suffered from allergic asthma, which was mostly controlled by a daily dose of Claritin.  The inhaler was only for emergencies.  David Little had lost his wrist brace, and Vivian Donovan's personal effects no longer included a brand new pair of glasses.

Steve was going to need glasses if he kept staring at his list.  His stomach growled, and he knew it was lunchtime.  They were serving meatloaf at the hospital.

No, he couldn't actually encourage his father and friends that way, he appreciated their help when it was offered, sometimes, but asking for it, well, he would really be _asking for it_.

But if he went to the hospital for lunch and his father realized something was troubling him, he could be reluctant to share and let them coerce him into telling them.  Surely, one of them would see something he was missing.  He popped a couple of aspirin into his hand from the bottle in his desk and munched them down on his way out the door.

~~~~~

Half an hour later, Mark took one glance at the list and said, "They all had job-related medical conditions."

Steve frowned and pinched the bridge of his nose.  "How can you tell?"

"Teachers often suffer from chronic tension headaches," Mark said.  "Probably at least as often as cops."

Steve smiled at the concerned affection in his father's tone and said, "I've already taken something, Dad.  If it doesn't kick in before I go, I'll let you know."

Mark peered over his glasses and muttered, "Swallowed them dry, no doubt."  

Steve sighed and rolled his eyes at the implied reprimand.  At least Amanda and Jack were busy and couldn't be there to harass him, too.

Mark looked back at the list and continued, "Chances are Coronado developed his asthma as an adult, after he became a florist.  He probably always had the allergies, but as a florist, he was constantly exposed to pollen and other allergens that triggered the asthma."

"And as a computer programmer, Little was always typing.  He probably developed carpa . . . carpet . . . "

"Carpal tunnel syndrome," Mark said.

"Which is why he needed the wrist brace," Steve said and his dad nodded his confirmation.  "And Vivian Donovan needed glasses because of all the reading she'd been doing."

Mark nodded.  "The fact that they're a new prescription almost proves it was job related.  Her eyes shouldn't have been changing that much at her age.  She was too old for it to be growth-related and too young for presbyopia."

"So, now, I need a list of work-related medical conditions doctors are likely to develop, don't I?"

"Doctors . . . or dog catchers," Mark agreed with a grin.

Steve looked daggers at his dad and said, "Are you going to help me or not?"

"Are you sure you want me involved in your case?" Mark said teasingly.

"Grrrr."


	4. Meatloaf is Good for the Brain

**Chapter Four**

**Meatloaf is Good for the Brain**

Mark grinned.

"If you keep gnashing your teeth like that, Son," he said, "you will wear all the enamel off them."

Throwing his father a look of disgust, Steve replied, "So, are you going to help me?"

Deciding that he had tortured his son long enough, Mark answered in a more sober tone, "Are you serious about a list of doctor's work related medical conditions?"

"Yes please, Dad," Steve answered.

"Okay, I'll give it some thought and let you know tonight." Mark paused as a loud rumble erupted from the general area of his son's abdomen, "Hungry? It's meatloaf day."

"I know," grinned Steve as he opened the door, gesturing for his dad to precede him, "I thought you'd never ask."

¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬

The two uniformed officers stepped from their shiny black and white, before crossing the sidewalk making their way towards a frantically gesturing young woman. As they reached her she said, with a breathlessness brought on by animation, "He's down here!"

Almost dragging the first officer along the darkened alleyway, the woman stopped next to one of the grey and overflowing dumpsters. Pointing in a dramatic fashion that immediately singled her out as one of the many aspiring actresses who populated LA, she exclaimed, "He's here. I think he's dead!"

"We'll be the judge of that, Ma'am," the first officer spoke with a smile in his voice then, bending down to join his partner he continued, "What have we got, Harry?"

"Well, he's not dead," Harry Porter, a veteran of many alleyway bodies, answered, "but he's in a bad way. We'd better call for the paramedics."

In the time it took for the ambulance to arrive the two officers continued with their duties. Harry sifted through the rubbish which surrounded the scruffy and very grubby individual on the floor of the alley, hoping to find some clue as to his identity, placing a number of items in an evidence bag whilst Josh, his partner, spoke to the young woman who had found him. Fortunately for Josh, she had calmed down somewhat as the reality of the situation penetrated her mind.

"I work in the restaurant," she said, gesturing towards a door with paint peeling off it, "and the boss told me to bring out the trash. It's quite dark out here and I didn't see the guy at first. It was only when I kicked something that I looked down and realised that there was someone lying there. Is he going to be alright?"

"I don't know, Ma'am," Josh replied, "but I know they will do all that they can for him."

The wailing of the ambulance siren cut short any further conversation.

¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬

Steve was back at his desk after a satisfying and very filling lunch. He was running his eyes down his notes and, suddenly, his gaze was arrested on the items that were missing from the victims. A thought struck him. Where had each person got the item? The majority of people had their prescriptions filled at a pharmacy and he suddenly wondered if there was a link there. Quickly picking up the phone, he made the first of four phone calls to their next of kin.

As he finished the last one a slow smile emerged on his face as, for the first time in nearly six months, he actually felt like he was getting somewhere. Grabbing his jacket, Steve quickly exited the squad room and headed back to Community General to see his dad. 

¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬

The ambulance came to a halt outside the doors of the Emergency Room and the paramedics carefully unloaded their charge from the ambulance and wheeled him inside to where Mark and Jack were waiting.

"What do we have?" Mark asked whilst making an initial visual scan of the patient, as he often found this to be extremely beneficial.

"Heart rate rapid, profuse sweating," began the paramedic, "and during the ride in he came round and was complaining of chest pains, although it was hard to hear him as he wasn't able to talk very well."

"Okay," Mark replied, "thanks guys. See you later."

Dropping the plastic bag of personal possessions just outside the door to Trauma 1, the two paramedics left the ER in search of their next patient.

"What do you think, Mark?" Jack asked.

"What do **_you_** think?" Mark, ever the teacher, threw the question back at his young friend. 

"Given the symptoms that Roy and James gave us," Jack began slowly, trying to give himself time to think, "I would be looking at asthma."

"Good call, Jack," Mark congratulated, "that is what I was thinking. Why don't you check in that bag they left to see if you can find an inhaler?" 

The bag was just outside the door and Jack wedged the door open with one foot, whilst bending down to check in it. Very quickly, he pulled out an inhaler and called, "I have it, Mark. Our patient's name is Lazaro Coronado. Hey, that name seems familiar to me."

"It should, Jack," came a voice from behind him, "that is the name of my second victim."

"So how come my patient has his inhaler?" Mark turned to look at his son, who had just exited the elevator and had come to a halt next to Jack.

"I don't know the answer to that one, Dad," Steve answered, "but I have found a link between all four victims."

The response to his pronouncement was all that Steve could have hoped and he waited for a few seconds until the questioning died down.

"So?" Mark demanded eventually.

"All four victims were very busy and used a medical courier service to pick up their prescriptions and deliver them."

"Even the last one with her glasses?" Jack queried, "I thought they had to be checked to make sure the new frames fitted."

"Quite right, Jack," Steve responded, "however, Mrs. Donovan's glasses were her spare pair in an old set of frames, so they didn't need to be checked."

"Do you know which courier service it is, Steve?" Mark asked.

"They are called Medi-Quick," Steve answered.

"I know the guy who owns that company," Mark replied.

"Why am I not surprised?" Steve asked, of no one in particular, "Do you think you could give me a name and/or number?"

Reaching into his back pocket, Mark said, "Certainly, get your notepad and pen out."


	5. Delicate Clues

**Chapter Five**

**Deli-cate Clues**

Steve quickly jotted down the information his father gave him, then pointed to the man stretched out on the gurney. While they had been talking, Jack had directed the nurses as to the patient's treatment. "How long till he's coherent?"

  
Mark assessed the man for several moments. "Unless something unexpected comes up, I'd expect to see improvement over the next few hours."

  
"Good." Steve slipped his notebook back into his pocket with a satisfied smile. "That gives me just enough time to get a search warrant for Medi-Quick's records. After that, I'll be back to question him about how he managed to get that inhaler."

  
"Oh, Steve." Mark made a face. "Edward Flanagan is a good friend of mine. You shouldn't have to go to that extreme. Why don't you let me talk to him? I'm sure he'll give you whatever cooperation that you need."

  
Steve shook his head. "Dad, strange things happen when the Los Angeles Police Department comes asking for a peek into your records. Friend or no friend, I'd prefer to come armed with a piece of paper that says he has to give them to me. That way there's no chance of any misunderstandings. It'll protect him and the department."

"You're right, of course," Mark smiled at him. "And I'll just put this in a safe place for you." He held up the bag containing the man's possessions.

  
"Thanks, Dad." Steve turned and left the Emergency Room. As he moved to step into the opening door of the elevator, he was bumped by a gentleman coming out_._ Steve stumbled back slightly, mildly annoyed at the man's rudeness. But the guy never apologized, or even turned around. He simply continued to stride forward, appearing to be headed toward the ER. Steve's eyes settled for a moment on the logo across the back of his overalls: _CenterTech_. Then, dismissing the incident, he stepped into the elevator.

  
He had to admit, a few days earlier and he might not have been so forgiving. The case had been really getting to him. But now, after six months of stagnation, he finally felt like he was back in the swing of things. As much as it plagued him to acknowledge it, he owed that in part to his dad, Jack and Amanda.

  
Punching the button that would move the elevator to the proper floor, he watched the numbers tick past. With each number, another name and another victim ticked through his mind. He wondered if perhaps he should have brought them in sooner, if only for a different perspective. But then he reminded himself that enough of a pattern may not have emerged for them to find anything, either. It would have been even worse thinking that the surname of the first victim was the profession of the second victim, but not knowing for sure and having to wait for someone else to die. He shuddered a little at the thought.

  
The elevator dinged and opened onto the parking deck. He stepped out and headed toward his truck, his mind still mulling the case. He knew that the next victim would be targeted to die more than two weeks but less than a month from the last victim, which meant that sometime between about the 14th and the 22nd of July, a dog catcher, or a doctor, with a surname beginning with a letter of the alphabet between E and M, was in great danger and didn't know it. The 14th of July was less than a week away. He hoped that something turned up in Medi-Quick's files. Having discovered as much as they had, he didn't think he could take another innocent death.  

Refusing to let his mind go any further down that particular path, he unlocked his truck and moved to climb in. The ringing of his cell phone made him pause.

  
----

  
"What are you doing, Mark?"

  
Jack's voice caused Mark to startle. He looked guiltily up at his colleague and then back down at the items that were piled haphazardly onto a handkerchief in his lap. "Uh, would you believe taking inventory?" Mark asked.

  
Jack let out a soft bark of laughter. "Yeah, that I would believe. But not the way you'd want Steve to believe you're doing it. You're looking for more clues aren't you?"

  
Mark chuckled, happy to have a co-conspirator. Carefully handling objects by their edges, he began to present them. "This is the inhaler that you found which has the name of our second victim on it." He turned the inhaler slightly, pointing out the dirty smudges. "I'd say our friend in there had this in his possession for a while. He obviously knew he had asthma and used this for it. I've a suspicion that this container is now empty, hence his ending up here in the ER." He carefully dropped it back into the bag.

  
"Okay, I'll buy that," Jack said, settling beside him.

  
Mark picked up the next item in the pile. A wad of condiment packets wrapped in clear plastic wrap. He pointed to several packets of mustard with a pen. "Those are from Hero's Deli." He waited for Jack to make the connection.

  
"Okay." Jack thought for a moment, obviously wanting very much to come up with the answer. He gave in with a shrug. "I don't get it. What's so important about Hero's Deli?"

  
"The second victim's body was found near a deli where he often had lunch. The name of the deli was Hero's." Mark's grin broadened as realization dawned in Jack's eyes.

  
"So how did the bum get it? No way he orchestrated all of these murders."

  
"I agree," Mark said. "Off hand I can think of only a couple of possible scenarios. Either our killer dropped it, or the victim did, and our John Doe picked it up."

  
Jack's expression was doubtful. "I don't think our killer would be so sloppy as to leave it behind, do you? And, if your life depends on a medication, I'd think that you'd take good care of it."   
  
Mark frowned. "You've got a point. But remember Coronado's allergies were controlled by Claritin. The inhaler was for emergencies." He mulled that for a second, then an idea struck.

  
"Look at the amount of condiments here. This guy spent a lot of time at that deli. Maybe Coronado saw him, might even have noticed that he was wheezing. Considering his generosity, he may have given it to the man voluntarily. After all, he could simply order up another one."

  
Jack's brows rose. "I like that. That works. We should tell Steve. If this guy spent time in that alley . . . "

  
"He might have seen the murderer, or even the murder itself." Mark finished the statement grimly. He dumped the items back into the bag and reached for his phone.


	6. Unwarranted Interference

**Chapter Six **

**Unwarranted Interference**

Steve had secured the search warrant for Medi-Quick's files, but his dad's call had made him decide to return to Community General before going to the courier service's offices.

As he exited the elevator and started down the corridor toward the doctors' lounge, he noticed that the same man who had bumped into him earlier wearing the CenterTech logo was now walking the opposite way.  His detective training caused him to stop and watch the man as he paused at the elevators, waited for the doors to open, and then got in.  He selected the button for the floor he wanted, turned, and half smiled in Steve's direction as the doors closed.  Steve shrugged off his suspicious feelings and went on his way.

When he reached the lounge, his father greeted him at the door.  "Oh, Steve, I'm glad that you're here.  Our prospective witness woke up."  Steve decided to ignore the fact that he was now sharing the witness, and followed his father in silence into the elevator.

"Here we are then!"  Mark's tone was a little too cheerful and Steve gave his father a less than sincere smile and a slight nod, noticing that Jack was already in the room.  The thought _Don't you two have anything else to do?_ crossed his mind, but he decided not to bring it up.  "You said he was awake."

"Oh, yes, he is," Mark stated as he ushered his son into the room and over to the bed.  "Marty," he spoke to the man who had previously been called John Doe, "this is my son, Sergeant Steve Sloan, from the LAPD."

The homeless man held out his hand in a friendly gesture, "Nice to meet you, Sergeant."  He was receiving oxygen through a nasal tube and an IV was in his right arm, but he seemed reasonably cognizant.

Steve shook his hand and then began the questioning.  "Marty, could you tell me your full name, please?"

"Sure, it's Martin Howard Schmidt, the third."

Steve was surprised by the completeness of the answer, but he recorded it in his book.  "Mr. Schmidt, when you were found unconscious this morning, you had an inhaler in your possession…"

"We've already discussed that," Mark interrupted, "and he told us that a very nice man, who by the way seemed to match the description of Lazaro Coronado, gave it to him."

Steve glared at his dad for a few seconds, and then turned back and began to ask, "Mr. Schmidt, when did this…"

"He's had it for several weeks now, but he's not exactly sure when the man gave it to him."  It was Jack who supplied the information this time.

Steve scowled at the two doctors who, he thought, looked quite proud of themselves.  He cleared his throat and tried again, "Mr. Schmidt, have you ever seen…

"…anything suspicious," Mark butted in.  "The answer is no, he hasn't."

Steve's temper flared, and he grabbed his dad by the elbow and forced him out in the hallway.  Jack smiled at Mr. Schmidt, and said, "Excuse us for a minute."

"Sure thing," the man replied watching the threesome leave his room, not understanding why the cop seemed to be so upset.

"Dad, what are you doing?" Steve yelled once they were out in the hallway.  "You promised that you wouldn't interfere," he laid into his father, not caring that everyone in the corridor heard him.  "I'm conducting this investigation, not you!"

"Steve, we were just trying to help."  Jack tried to come to Mark's defense.

"No, Jack, you weren't just trying to help; you were trying to meddle.  There is a big difference!"

"Son, calm down.  Once Marty found out that Mr. Coronado was murdered, he was more than happy to help out."

"Oh, great, now I've got homeless people helping me solve homicides."

"Steve, don't you think that you're being kind of hard on your dad?" Jack asked.

"No, Jack, I don't.  I knew it was a mistake to let you help me on this case."  And before anyone could say anything else, Steve walked away, anger evident in every step.  "I have a search warrant to execute, unless you did that too, while I wasn't looking!"

Mark and Jack stood motionless, shocked from what had just occurred.

----------

It was much later that night when Mark got home from the hospital.  As he pulled into the driveway, he saw Steve's truck and let out a deep sigh.  After taking some time to think about the botched interview, he had tried to call his son several times that afternoon, but there had been no answer.  It was obvious when Steve left, that he had been angry and frustrated, and Mark felt he was to blame.  He shook his head knowing that once again he had let his enthusiasm get out of control and what he would deem as helping was really interfering.

He entered the house rather sheepishly, looking for Steve, wanting to clear the air as soon as possible.  He saw his son sitting alone on the deck drinking a cola.  Mark was a little surprised that he wasn't downing a beer, but took it as a good sign.

Steve turned his head slightly as the patio door opened, and his father came through it.  He had been waiting for him to get home to deliver his apology not only for the scene in the hospital, but also for ignoring his calls all afternoon.

Mark spoke first, "Steve, I'm sorry for interfering with your investigation today."

His son nodded, "It's ok, Dad.  I'm the one who should apologize.  I over reacted."

"Maybe just a little," Mark grinned, and Steve couldn't help but smile also.

"I'm the cop, Dad, not you.  And as grateful as I am for the help the other night, you promised to stay out of it after that.  But today, with Mr. Schmidt, you butted in again.  I'm the one who should interrogate witnesses."

Mark hung his head, a little embarrassed.  "I understand, Steve."

"No, Dad, I don't think you do."  Steve wasn't upset anymore; he spoke calmly.  "I've been sitting here for over an hour trying to sort things out."

"I see.  An hour.  Well, I would guess you've reached some conclusions in that amount of time," Mark teased his son.

Steve let a grin escape from his lips.  "Yeah, I have. I've come to two conclusions."

Mark raised his eyebrows in interest.

"The first one is that you are very good at solving murder cases.  Maybe it's the way your brain works, or maybe it's that you're older and have more experience, whatever the reason, you're just better at it than I am."

"Oh, Steve, I wouldn't say that," Mark tried to argue.

"Dad, let me finish."  It came out a little firmer than Steve intended.

"I guess I just butted in again, huh?"

A kind smile was his reply.  "As I was saying, you're better at solving murders than I am, but the second thing I've decided is that since you are better, then I need to have you around.  I want to learn from the best."  He paused, looking at his father with great admiration.  "And that's you, Dad."


	7. Body Count

**Chapter 7:  Body Count**

With sunlight streaming in through the windows, Mark pottered around the kitchen running over the events of the previous evening. Steve's declaration of admiration had been the last thing he had expected after the incident at the hospital, and whilst it had warmed his heart greatly, it had also thrown him slightly.

He had been ready to step back from the investigation, to tell Steve that he would stop interfering. But now… He could dive in headfirst and start probing the case further, which, if he was honest with himself, would satisfy the gnawing curiosity that played on his mind. Or should he tread carefully? Play it safe and let Steve continue to lead the investigation lending help when, and indeed _if_, he was asked.

Mark sighed to himself. The last thing he wanted was to get in Steve's way, no matter how much he professed to needing assistance.

"Hi, Dad!" Steve bounded into the kitchen, a large smile plastered over his face.

"Ahh… coffee!" he inhaled deeply.

"What are you so happy about?" Mark responded, unsure of the source of his son's apparent good mood.

"Well, I've been thinking. We've got a potential witness in Marty – he may not think he's seen anything significant," Steve interjected as his father made to interrupt, "but even seemingly trivial things could lead us to the killer. And with your input… well, let's just say things are looking up." Steve lifted his cup of freshly poured coffee in the fashion of a toast and smiled broadly at his father, who couldn't help but smile at his flourish.

Deciding that he could do no better than follow Steve's lead, Mark waded in with a question.

"So… how did things go over at Medi-Quick yesterday?"

"Mmm…" Steve said swallowing the large mouthful of coffee he had just taken, "Not so great."

"Surely they co-operated? I've known Ed Flanagan for years and I've never known him to be anything but obliging. And anyway – you had a warrant."

"Flanagan wasn't the problem. He told me he'd give any information we need and seemed very concerned that his customers were being killed."

"So what was it then?" Mark was evidently confused.

"Medi-Quick has recently had a new computer system installed. All of their files have been put onto an updated database network and the whole thing has crashed – they've lost everything."

"What about paper-based files?" Mark said, a sinking feeling settling in his chest as he realised one of their major leads may now prove fruitless. 

"They were destroyed when they moved to a computerised system about a year ago. All the details on new and existing customers were logged into the old network before the upgrade, and with the new system out of action there's not really much they can do to help us. They've got the technicians in, but it's not looking too good." Steve finished with disheartened sigh.

Mark was silent for a moment, taking in the new information.

"What about the employees? Maybe there's one particular individual who delivered to each of the victims?"

"Well," Steve started, "I suggested that to Mr. Flanagan and whilst he can't give me any definitive answers it looks doubtful. The victims lived in different districts and Medi-Quick have couriers localised to each area."

Mark contemplated this again, and sighed, dejected.

"I did have one idea though… I mean, I know it's a long shot but I thought about sending out details of the MO to a few other precincts in the country. You know, just in case…" Steve trailed off, looking to his father for feedback on the idea.

"Seeing as how few leads we have, I suppose anything's worth a try."

The day thereafter did not bring to light any further insights into the case. A repeat of the interview with Marty had yielded a detailed diary of his day-to-day activities, and whilst a few facts had stood out they were insubstantial at best.

The late afternoon saw Steve sitting at his desk, tapping a pencil distractedly. As soon as he had arrived that morning he had sent a summary of the murders to several precincts around the country, selecting major cities on the off chance that something would turn up. He didn't really expect any response, but the hope lingered in his mind that a clue might yet be found to help him break the case. Despite his earlier optimism however, the lack of progress was, yet again, beginning to get to him, and deciding that there was nothing more he could do that day, he slipped his jacket off the back of his chair and left for home.

Arriving at work the next morning Steve immediately sought out a fresh hit of caffeine, his sleepy mind having neglected to acknowledge he was awake and trying to function. Having acquired a cup of steaming coffee he sat heavily into the chair at his desk thinking longingly of taking a nap, only to find a small pile of papers placed most inconsiderately in the spot he had picked out as a headrest.

Flicking through them with only a semblance of interest, he found several photos of bodies – each victim on their knees, head falling limply to their chests, a bullet wound apparent to the head. Steve was just preparing himself to get up and question why these files had been returned to his desk when one photo in particular caught his eye. It was a woman. An elderly woman. The only female victim so far had been 26 years old.

Flicking through the files more frantically, Steve searched each page with his eyes. Names, dates; murder, after murder, all killed in the same way. A bullet to the brain and then their mutilated corpses posed in a gratuitous execution style position.

For the next hour he read. Details of unsolved murders, some going back five years or more. The pattern was there – every surname matched the date pattern Jack had identified, and the first two letters of the secondary victim's profession matched those of the prior victim's surname. There was no doubt left in Steve's mind. These new murders, all 18 of them, all had been carried out by the same killer, and that killer was now roaming the streets of LA.

"Dad!" Steve hurried along the hospital corridor, calling after Mark who stood in conversation with Jack.

"Steve? Is everything ok?" The urgency in Steve's voice obviously had not gone unnoticed, and Mark's concern was clear.

"There have been others. _Lots _of others. So many of them I can't remember their names." Steve's voice was breathy, hyped with a vehement intensity.

"What?" both Mark and Jack looked confused.

"The murderer. He's done it before." Steve held aloft a handful of files.

A few minutes later Mark, Steve, Jack and Amanda were assembled around the table in the doctor's lounge. The wooden surface was littered with photos, police reports and details of autopsies. Steve had filled the others in on his findings, and each had responded in unified shock and disgust.

"I can't believe there have been so many." Amanda whispered, shaking her head.

"I make it twenty-two people so far. How can anyone kill twenty-two people?" Jack frowned in disbelief, staring fixedly at the numerous crime scene photos that depicted the horror of the crimes in all their glory.

"And those are only the ones that we know of," Mark responded gravely thumbing through one of the files. "Who knows how many others there have been?"

Steve ran a hand wearily over his face. "I don't know. I've already sent out the MO to other cities to see if they have anything that matches up with our guy."

"What if…" Amanda started, before trailing off. She pursed her lips in obvious deep thought.

The others looked at her expectantly.

Finally Jack could take the silence no longer.

"Well what?"

"I was just thinking… What if… what if we assume that these are the only victims?"

"There's no way we can know that." Steve interrupted.

"I know, but… but what if they are? I've never been involved in a case with a serial killer before..." She stopped, looking at Steve for some kind of response having heard about the previous day's outburst over their repeated interference, but finding none forthcoming she continued.

"Well, serial killers have a compulsion to kill, I don't know why, maybe they're born with it. But something has to happen to make them cross the line from wanting to kill, to actually doing it."

"I see what you're getting at." Mark said having caught on to Amanda's line of thinking.  "If we date these murders to the earliest chronologically – it might just lead us to a link with the killer."

"Very good," Mark leant back in his chair smiling soberly. "All leads are worth investigating at this point. Especially," Mark added, "as it looks like we have a new pattern to contend with."

Amanda, Steve and Jack looked at him with interest.

"In each area there were six murders, all within the space of eight months before they appeared to stop. But, as Steve already told us – serial killers don't stop. They can't. They just move on."

"Six murders?" Steve reached out a hand and took from his father the file he was holding. He had read through the information himself and despite the obvious pattern he had failed to notice it.

"Always six in each area. There have been four in the past six months, so…" Mark was cut short by Steve.

"So that means unless we can solve this within the next month, two more people will be dead and the killer will have moved on somewhere new. Somewhere no one will be looking for him. Somewhere he can start the pattern all over again."


	8. Close to Home

**Chapter 8:  Close to Home**

The discovery of the extent and scope of the serial killer's operation changed the case irrevocably. When Steve presented his findings to Captain Blackwell, his superior was inclined to place a more senior detective in charge of such a critical and politically sensitive investigation. However, Steve argued forcefully that he should stay in control, citing the incontrovertible evidence of his progress so far. He felt a trifle guilty for claiming the credit for what he knew was very much a team effort, but he didn't think that sharing that nugget of information would bolster his contention. He truly believed that the hours of research, consideration and discussion he, Mark and their friends had invested gave them a feel for the case that professional experience alone could not duplicate and that it was their best chance of catching the killer before he took another life.

Eventually the Captain acquiesced, assigning several detectives to Steve's command. He gratefully accepted, knowing how much legwork would be involved in following all the potential leads from the newly discovered victims.

During the next week, Steve set up a two-pronged attack to the investigation. He concentrated part of his resources on Medi-Quick, trying to develop as comprehensive a list as possible of their clients from the memories of the couriers and other staff members while their computer technician tried to reconstruct at least some of the records from the damaged computer system. It was hoped that they would be able to identify all the potential victims who fit the parameters of the established pattern.

The second group worked on the mass of information accrued from the earlier murder victims, correlating the data to spot any inconsistencies or other clues as to the identity of the killer. In none of the other cities had the police made as much progress. The perp had clearly moved across the country from East to West. The detective in charge of the New York investigation had died a year back, so little progress had been made gathering information from the earliest city in which they knew the killer had operated, but Steve had spoken to the lead investigators in St. Louis and Denver who were cooperating productively.

Steve was optimistic that they would find something pertinent to prevent another murder, but, so far, they had met with several frustrations. The key seemed to lie in the medical courier services, but, in St. Louis, the courier service had been taken over by a bigger company and their earlier records were missing, and in Denver, the company had gone out of business, and so they had to follow different avenues of inquiry.

It was mind-numbing, exhausting work and, with the pressure of the next window of opportunity for the killer fast approaching, extremely stressful. Steve met with his father and friends every evening to bring them up to date on developments and to discuss any new findings, but they had been unable to contribute any more significant breakthroughs. With lives at stake, it wasn't surprising that tempers were not uniformly harmonious. On the evening of the 13th July, Jack was insistent that a general warning should be issued so that those at greatest risk would know who they were.

"The Captain would never agree to that," Steve objected. "It's totally against policy."

"So is discussing this case with civilians," Jack pointed out snidely. "But I don't see that stopping you."

"Well, I can do something about that," Steve retorted.

Mark knew that tempers were short due to frustration and stress and intervened before either of the younger men said something they would regret later. "There are reasons for that policy, so let's see how we can work round it," he suggested diplomatically.

The eagerness with which Steve seized on the suggestion hinted at his discomfort with the rules under which he was operating. "There can't be more than a few people who'll fit the pattern any one day, can there? And the killer has mostly struck during the day. We've got enough manpower to cover them, a bodyguard for each potential victim."

"That's a good idea," Amanda jumped in quickly before Jack could speak. "For a start, have we identified all possible professions that start with DO? We've got doctor, dogcatcher, dowser... How about dowager?"

"That doesn't count as a profession," Jack carped.

Amanda threw him a mock glare. "Let's see you do better," she challenged him.

"Sure," he replied confidently; but Amanda's smile grew in proportion to the silence as Jack cast around for inspiration. Finally he cried out triumphantly, "Don!" 

The other three burst out laughing. "I wouldn't exactly call that a profession, except possibly in your family," Amanda scoffed.

"Besides, they tend to come with their own bodyguards," Steve pointed out.

"OK, dope addict," Jack attempted, clearly floundering.

"Dominican priest," Mark added helpfully over the derisive laughter, then, clearly warming up to the theme, he continued, "Or docent."

"Actually, that last one's not bad," Steve admitted. "We don't know how tricky this guy might decide to be in labelling his victims. He might lump visiting professors under that title."

"I've got a dictionary," Mark offered. He started to thumb through the pages. "Dock worker...doll maker....hmmm. Dolphin trainer...domestic? That's a possibility for maids or home helps. Doorman. That's all. I still think doctor is our best bet, although it could just as easily be an academic doctor, a professor, and goodness knows there's enough of those in LA."

Not long after their group brainstorming, Jack and Amanda made their farewells, yawning apologetically, and Steve and Mark were left together. This had become almost a ritual, an oasis of calm in the mayhem of their daily schedules which helped to dissolve the toxins of stress and frustration accumulated during the long days. Mark had the knack of asking just the right questions to enable his son to sort through the plethora of facts, discard the dross and focus on the essentials.

But tonight was the 13th, and already the killer might be poised to strike again, so Steve was anything but relaxed. He was wearing a definite track in the carpet, pacing back and forth. Mark watched his perambulations, noting with concern the clear evidence of sleepless nights and meals missed in the dark circles under his eyes and his more than usually lanky frame. However, Mark swallowed both paternal and professional instincts out of respect for his son's independence. Tired himself from double duty as doctor during the day and amateur detective in the evenings, he had started to doze, lulled by Steve's regular pacing, when he was startled by an abrupt question from Steve.

"Do you think Jack was right?"

It took Mark a moment to focus back on Jack's forceful opinion that the public should be informed. It was a tricky issue, and he gave his reply some consideration. "We do have enough information to possibly safeguard the next victim, but releasing the details we have would create a public panic at the idea that a serial killer is randomly murdering people according to a bizarre pattern, and just imagine the media frenzy. We're lucky they haven't put it together so far. No, I think you made a fair compromise."

His words seemed to do little to reassure, and Steve's stride lengthened, betraying an inner agitation. "I can't believe we've still got so little information. This guy can't be that good, he must have made a mistake somewhere. It's unbelievable bad luck that the courier service in Denver went out of business."

"Or maybe not." Mark looked thoughtful and fell silent, and after a moment, Steve plopped down in a chair to watch him, a twinge of excitement and hope stirring in his stomach. He'd seen that look on his father's face more than once as he was growing up, and knew it presaged a mental breakthrough of some kind.

"Why did they go out of business?" Mark asked. It was said in such a slow, pensive way that Steve wasn't sure if it was a rhetorical question, part of an internal debate, or if he really wanted the answer. To be on the safe side, he rifled through his notes, but was unable to find an explanation.

"It doesn't say. You think it is important?"

"Well, what if it isn't an unfortunate coincidence, but an indication of the killer covering his tracks?" Mark felt a strange confidence that he was on the right track, and his conviction communicated itself to Steve.

He grinned at his father, his exhaustion temporarily melting away. "It's too late to call, but I'll send an e-mail right now."

It was a promising lead, but for the next few days, detection had to give way to protection. The stress and fatigue continued to build, as Steve pushed to come up with more leads while attempting to ensure the safety of the few people that Medi-Quick was able to identify whose names and professions fit the killer's pattern. As the days progressed further into the window of time in which they expected the killer to strike, Steve felt the tension mounting unbearably, feeling a new and unwilling kinship with King Damocles of ancient Greece, waiting for the delicately poised sword of destruction to plunge down upon him. It was the afternoon of the 19th when the stroke finally fell. 

Around 4:30 that afternoon, Steve found himself not far from Community General, staring grimly at the body of a young man propped up execution style behind the dumpster of a coffee shop, listening to the report of the uniformed officer who had first arrived on the scene. The restaurant owner had been able to identify the man as one of his regular customers, but Steve didn't really need to be told who and what he was. He recognized him himself as a second-year resident from the hospital – Jeff Hollowell, a young doctor whom Mark considered to have great promise. He stood there, battling the anger, the sense of failure that threatened to overwhelm him. While he took personally every death perpetrated by a killer he was tracking – it was part of what made him such a good detective – he knew that this death would hit Mark hard, and the knowledge left a particularly bitter sting. 

Having gathered what information he could from the scene, he left the CSU performing their painstaking sweep of the site, and headed over to Community General to apprise his father of the death. He knew Mark would want to come and view the scene for himself, and he fervently hoped that his father's often-astonishing ability to notice and make sense of seeming inconsequentials would provide them with more to go on than was currently apparent to his own, obviously inadequate, he thought disgustedly, mind. 

Steve was glad to find Mark working in his office when he arrived; he really didn't want to break the news to his dad in the midst of the commotion of the hospital corridors. As he entered the office, Mark looked up with a welcoming smile that immediately gave way to a slightly concerned questioning at the sight of his son's sombre face. 

"Steve?" he asked, his voice adding the unspoken _what's wrong?_

"We've got another victim," Steve announced, getting straight to the point. He met Mark's gaze, knowing that his expression and tone were warning his father that the news was about to get worse. "It's Jeff Hollowell." He watched the shocked dismay flit briefly across the older man's face, and added quietly, "I'm sorry, Dad." 

Mark nodded slightly, accepting his son's sympathetic understanding, as he thought of the young man whom he had expected to watch develop into the type of caring and competent physician that was so valuable in the field.

"I was just talking to him this morning," he reflected aloud. He looked up at Steve. "It must have just happened?" 

Steve nodded. "A couple of kids playing hide and seek found him behind the dumpster in the back of the City Coffee Shop. The owner says that he often stopped there before or after his shifts." 

Mark nodded again. "A lot of the residents do," he confirmed. 

Steve watched the sadness that clouded the eyes before him, and seemed to see the lines in Mark's face deepen. The tide of anger and frustration with the case and his own inability to solve it without further loss of life swelled to unbearable proportions. "Damn," he muttered, his voice low, but vehement, his fists clenching unconsciously. 

The single syllable brought Mark's gaze immediately to his son's face, and what he saw there sounded instant paternal alarms. Steve's face was lined with fatigue and stress, his body tense with anger, his expression … Mark didn't like what he saw in those normally steady blue eyes. 

"Steve?" The single-word inquiry posed a multitude of questions that Steve had no trouble interpreting. The sympathy and concern he saw directed at him only served to worsen his feelings of guilt and self-recrimination. 

"Maybe I should have let the captain assign this to somebody else," he said, his voice suddenly tired, his shoulders slumping. "Maybe I should have listened to Jack and recommended that we alert people to what's going on." 

Knowing that uttering soothing platitudes never cut any ice with his son, Mark considered those possibilities thoughtfully before he responded. 

"I don't see how anyone could have prevented this," he observed quietly. "Jeff's name wasn't even on the list Medi-Quick gave you." 

"Maybe I've been wrong all along," Steve suggested disgustedly. "Maybe we don't really understand the pattern yet." 

"They told us the list probably wasn't complete," Mark replied. "Jeff's must just be one of the names that they didn't find yet." He got up and moved around the desk to stand next to his son, placing a hand on the younger man's arm. 

"Steve, you're being too hard on yourself. This killer has committed 23 murders throughout four cities that we know of, and this is the first time anyone's figured out his pattern. You have several leads that we're still waiting to get results from. You made the connection to Medi-Quick, and we're still getting information from them. You've accomplished more than anyone else has been able to." 

Steve felt the sincerity and conviction in the clear blue eyes locked on his own penetrate the pall of darkness clouding his mood. He knew his father was unfailingly supportive, but he also knew that Mark would never soothe him with meaningless half-truths or false assurances. This didn't erase his feelings that he had failed in preventing another murder, but it did help to ease his moment of self-doubt. 

"It wasn't enough for Jeff Hollowell, though," he replied. The words retained the tinge of bitterness, but the tone was one of almost resigned regret. 

"You know, Steve," Mark mused thoughtfully, "I'm not sure anything you did would have saved Jeff. Even if we had alerted all doctors about the danger, there's a chance Jeff wouldn't have considered himself at much risk anyway." Steve met his eyes inquiringly. "He was always complaining about the fact that most people don't consider residents 'real' doctors," Mark explained, an ironic twist to his mouth. "And many of them don't, you know. It always drives the residents crazy." 

As Steve reflected on the irony of this, another oddity in the resident's situation struck him. 

"Don't most residents get their prescriptions filled here at the hospital?" he asked, a frown creasing his brow. 

Eyes widening slightly, Mark picked up his son's thought instantly. "So why did he need a prescription delivery service?" It was his turn to frown in confusion. "Do you think Jeff wasn't actually part of the killer's pattern?" 

"Everything about the killing was the same," Steve replied, thinking it through. "The bullet to the head, the execution-style pose … and the name and profession fit the pattern – something we haven't advertised to the public, so it couldn't be a copycat." 

There was a moment of silence as both Sloans considered the possibilities. "It's possible that Jeff had a prescription for something that he preferred not to fill here," Mark suggested after a moment. "Things get around quickly in a hospital; sometimes people prefer to use an outside source if they have a condition that they don't want publicly known. Maybe we'll find something at his apartment that will tell us." He looked up at Steve, pleased to see the light of actively engaged intelligence replacing the doubt and bitterness that had dulled his son's eyes earlier.   
  
"Okay, that's the next stop, then," Steve declared. He sent a puzzled look back at his father as Mark moved back to his desk rather than towards the door. "Aren't you coming?" 

"Just need to get my jacket," Mark replied, exchanging his lab coat for it. He smiled slightly as he strode around the desk back to his son. "Does this mean you're not going to hand the case over to someone else?" he asked, glad to see the renewed determination in the detective's demeanour. 

Steve surveyed him for a moment. "I don't think so," he replied seriously. "After all, I have another advantage that you didn't mention." Meeting his father's inquiring gaze, he allowed a hint of a smile to glint in his eyes. "Nobody else has the outside resources I do." 

In the car on the their way to the apartment, Steve's cell phone rang. He groped for it with one hand while manoeuvring the vehicle expertly through the traffic with the other.

"Steve Sloan here......Oh, hi Bill. What have you got for me?.....Really!" He took the phone away from his mouth to tell his father, "The courier service in Denver went out of business after their computers crashed and they lost all of their client information. They lost most of their clients, too, when their orders weren't met." 

Mark met his gaze with a reciprocal sparkle in his eye. "Who managed their computers?" he asked eagerly.

Steve relayed the question. "A firm called Hi-Tech. Bill, get me everything you can find on that company; this could be the break we've been looking for."

He disconnected to find Mark already dialling on his own cell phone. "Hello, Ed. It's Mark Sloan here. I need you to tell me everything you can about the company that handles your computer systems." He listened for several minutes, then disconnected after telling him they'd be right over.

"Change of destination?" Steve asked, the flippancy in the words not covering his anticipation.

"We've got him," Mark declared confidently. "Listen to this. Their computer firm is called 'Center Tech'. It's basically a one-man company, although he hires people for large jobs on a temporary basis. What's more, he didn't show up to work today." Mark paused at the frown of concentration on his son's face, a different reaction to the one he expected.

"Center Tech, I've heard or seen that recently," Steve mused. Unable to place the elusive memory, he shook it off. "That's great, Dad. He's got opportunity, access to all the records, but why? What's the motive and why such an elaborate method of selecting his victims?"

Mark shook his head, unable to find an answer. "It takes a twisted, obsessively sick mind to kill using such a precise, premeditated pattern. We'll probably get some idea as we look at his background."

Considerably heartened by the good news after the heartbreak of the afternoon, Steve threaded the car as fast as possible through the rush hour traffic. They were greeted at the door to Medi-Quick by Edward Flanagan who was looking extremely harassed. "He still hasn't showed up and there's no answer at his number, so we went through his things and found this on the top of his files," he announced, holding out a large, white envelope.

Momentarily stunned, Mark and Steve stared at the words scrawled on the outside. 'Sergeant Steve Sloan, Homicide Detective'.


	9. A Worthy Adversary

**Chapter Nine:  A Worthy Adversary**

The anonymous white van with its even more anonymous occupant fulfilled its purpose, nobody gave it a second glance even as the man inside kept a careful watch on the glass doors opposite. He had been watching for some time now and was finally gratified when the object of his vigil arrived, striding at a rapid pace. He was only mildly surprised to see that Detective Sloan was accompanied by his father. 

He'd learnt a lot about his detective over the last few months, had even got close enough to bump into him at the hospital where his father worked. There on a dual purpose he'd deliberately bumped into him as he'd recognised him stepping from the elevator, wanting to gauge his reactions. He had been impressed both then and when he'd seen him later that day, catching a hint of suspicion from him. It was at that moment he had realised that he'd been right, he was dealing with someone different here, someone who might even catch up with him, he remembered smiling at that thought, the detective had given him a puzzled look as the elevator doors had closed, if only he knew.

He had realised from an early stage that the detective assigned in this city bore watching more closely than the rest. In Denver and St Louis the assigned detectives had seemed bored, going through the motions, even when they had realised that they were dealing with someone different, with someone who killed more than once. Sergeant Sloan, however, really looked like he cared, had a sense of purpose about him, and that alone made him worth more attention than the others, that and his presence on the list.

The only person who had come close to putting things together before this was Detective Jarvis in New York, he hadn't spotted the pattern but nonetheless he had gotten too close, that's why he'd moved on to St Louis. The idiots there had just scratched their heads and got nowhere, and as for the imbeciles in Denver, they had more chance of catching a cold than they'd had of catching him. It had taken three bodies before they had even realised the killings were linked. He could have stayed much longer there but he had completed his ritual, he had to move on and wait until it was time to start again. 

None of them had come close to spotting his pattern, only Jarvis had ever even interviewed him and that was when he had applied for and got a new job, in a new city. He had had to explain why he was leaving town, making it seem as though he was moving for a promotion, daring the detective to make the connection, slightly disappointed when the man had shook his hand and wished him luck.

No, he hadn't had a real challenge, not until now. Now the game was so much more exciting so much more personal. He'd thought it had been fulfilling before, but watching his detective that afternoon, as he'd moved to the latest body, had been so much more. Even now the memory of the anguish in the detective's eyes was delicious, Oh yes, much better, such a shame that there was only one killing left here, but at least he could make sure that that killing was special.

He was pulled from his musings as he saw Flanagan hand over the envelope. Reluctantly he turned the key to start the engine, it would have been good to stay and watch his detective react but that would be too risky and risks were things that you only took when they were calculated in your favour, besides he would get to see the fear. . .soon.

The white van pulled away and still it might as well have been invisible for all the notice anyone took.

--

Steve did not reach for the envelope straight away, allowing his professional training to take over, as his mind tried to process the implications. He took out a pair of gloves from his pocket and began to pull them on. "Has anyone else touched this?" he asked.

Ed Flanagan was momentarily confused when the envelope was not taken straight away, but quickly realised what Steve was doing. "I. . .er. . . only myself and my secretary, Miss Doyle," he replied, clearly flustered. "Like I say, it was on the top of his things and she handed it to me as soon as she found it."

Steve had taken the envelope now and was examining first the outside and then carefully feeling the contents, trying to decide if there was any reason why he should not open it, but he couldn't feel any wires.

"I. . . I'm sorry," Flanagan continued. "Fingerprints. . . of course, I should have realised."

Steve broke off from his scrutiny for a moment. "No it's all right, but it would be helpful if I could send someone over to get yours and your secretary's prints so that we can eliminate them."

"Yes, of course, no problem." Flanagan looked relieved at Steve's reassurance and Mark felt a good deal of sympathy for his friend. It couldn't have been easy finding out that the man you had been working closely with for more than six months was a potential serial killer. He knew from the couple of conversations that he had had with his friend, since Steve had made the connection, that Flanagan was finding it difficult to handle the fact that the killer was using his business to select his victims, so this would come as another blow.

Steve returned to his scrutiny of the package for a few moments more before looking round the lobby. "Have you got somewhere we could go to open this?" he asked. He didn't want to look at the contents here, out in the open, but neither was he patient enough to wait until he got back to the station.

Flanagan was clearly keen to do anything he could to help and showed father and son through to a small office. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" He asked as Steve moved round the desk.

"We'll need all your files on Center Tech and Mr. . ." Steve searched his memory, "Williams wasn't it."

"Simon Williams," Flanagan confirmed, "I'll get all of our files sent down to reception. Anything else?"

Steve looked up. "Some coffee would be nice," he replied.

Flanagan nodded. "I'll get you some," he said, recognising the dismissal for what it was.

Once they were alone Mark and Steve stared at the envelope with an air of trepidation. Mark looked up first and watched his son carefully, trying to read his expression, but Steve wore his characteristic stoic mask and Mark knew that for the moment he had shut his feelings down, repressed them so that he could focus on the task at hand, and that worried him as much as the earlier displays of guilt and frustration.

Steve met his father's gaze and took a deep breath. "Guess I'd better open it." He picked the envelope up and carefully slit the edge before sliding out the contents. He let out a gasp and visibly paled as he looked at the photographs that spilled out onto the table in front of him. He sank down into a chair and began to go through the prints one by one, muttering brief curses under his breath.

Mark divided his attention between watching his son's reactions and looking at the photographs. Most of them were shots of Steve arriving at or leaving the crime scenes where the bodies had been found, the slightly grainy appearance testament to the telephoto lens that had been used to take them. He could only guess as to what each of the images was doing to his son, knowing the killer was out there and being unable to stop him was one thing. Knowing now that the killer had been watching, taking some perverse pleasure in his perceived failure, as each new body was found was quite another. 

Steve went through each of the pictures before he finally looked up. "He's been watching since we found the first body," he stated a mixture of revulsion and anger building as he realised that the killer had been there all the time, watching. He picked up the sheet of paper that had fallen out of the envelope with the photographs.

Sergeant Sloan, 

Well done. You are so much closer to stopping me than anyone else, but now you only have one more chance.

One chance to end the game for one of us!

Enjoy.

Steve clenched his jaw as he read, dropping the sheet to the desk he pushed the chair back and turned, taking the two paces to the wall, he stood and clenched his fists until his knuckles were white with the strain, his nails digging into the palm of his hands as he fought for emotional control. Before this he had needed to catch this killer to assuage his feelings of guilt and responsibility, to stop him from killing again, now he needed to catch him to save his sanity, now it would always be personal.

Mark stood and moved round so that he could quickly read the note without touching it. Then he turned his attention back to his son and waited for the explosion of emotion that never came. He watched silently as Steve slowly brought his emotions under control, almost wishing that he wouldn't. He had already been on a knife edge with the guilt and responsibility he had felt for not catching the killer sooner, for allowing more deaths to occur, but now the killer had made it personal on a whole new level and Mark couldn't help but feel that he needed some sort of release.

Still not speaking Steve turned back to the desk and busied himself with gathering up the photographs and placing them back in the envelope.

"Steve. ." Mark began, not really knowing what he could say that would help, but needing to say or do something. Steve looked up and met his gaze, his face still an expressionless mask, but his eyes betrayed the mixture of pain and anger that he felt at this latest attack

Words however, were unnecessary, as their eyes met, the offer of moral support was made and accepted in silent understanding. 

Steve broke the moment, reaching down to retrieve the note. "OK lets get these back to forensics," he said, needing to get out of the room which had suddenly taken on a claustrophobic air. "And I need to get an APB out on Williams, and a warrant to search his apartment" 

--

The next few hours passed in a blur of activity and Steve was grateful that he was not left with time to think, to dwell on what the killer's message meant nor on his reasons for sending the photographs, as long as he was active he could keep his emotions in check.

A search of Williams' apartment revealed nothing, he had left five days earlier packing up all of his things and leaving no forwarding address. He had had a professional cleaning firm in to steam clean the place, ostensibly to get his security deposit back, but clearly in reality to remove any evidence. Extensive canvassing of the area had left no clues as to where he could have gone, a frustrating dead end.

The envelope and its contents had been clear of prints except for Ed Flanagan and his secretary, and a team had been dispatched to Medi-Quick to see if they could pick up any there. The department had also brought in their own technical consultants to see if there was anything left on Medi-Quick's computers but since Williams had had so long to work on it, it seemed unlikely.

The frustrating dead ends continued into the next day, now they had identified the killer, they didn't seem to be any closer to catching him. The only thing indicating that he hadn't left the city completely was the note that accompanied the photographs.

--

Steve looked round the small group of detectives working on the case as he wrapped up yet another briefing that seemed to consist of dead ends and cold trails. Simon Williams had been living in the city for about a year, but there was no trace of where he had come from before that and even less indication of where he might be now. Nobody even had a photograph of him, they had had to rely on a police sketch. It had been over a week since the last murder and still they were no closer to catching him before he killed again and the strain was showing on everyone. Particularly Steve, who had attended Jeff Hollowell's funeral with his father, Jack and Amanda the day before.

"Any Questions?" Steve asked wearily once he had assured himself that everyone knew what follow ups needed to be done. There were none and Steve broke the meeting up, intending to throw himself back into the paperwork on his desk, currently his only defense against the ever present swirl of negative emotions that threatened to drag him down, a voice from behind stopped him.

"Steve."

Steve turned to see Detective Saul Elliot, and forced a smile, of all the people in homicide Saul was probably the man he was friendliest with, the man he was most likely to go for a beer with after a hard day. "Saul, how can I help?"

"Can I have a word?" Saul replied looking distinctly uncomfortable, he glanced around the room, "Somewhere private."

Steve frowned at the shift in mood, realising that something was very wrong, he nodded and the two men made their way to one of the interrogation rooms. Once inside Saul turned and spoke even as Steve shut the door, as though his resolve may fail him if he waited any longer. "Your name will be on the list." Steve looked momentarily confused. "The list of Medi-Quick customers." Saul supplied, and waited for the explosive reaction that he knew must come.

It took Steve a long moment to process the information as memories of conversations with his father and friends and with his Captain, flooded his consciousness. The note had clearly been a direct threat to him and the implications of the envelope being labeled; Sergeant Sloan, Homicide detective had not been lost on any of them, given that the last victims surname began h o, but the general consensus had been that Steve could not be a potential victim since he would never, would not have a need to, use a medical courier service. 

They had managed to confirm that Jeff Hollowell had been getting medication delivered to control a mild form of epilepsy that, for some reason, he had not wanted the hospital to know about, which meant that all of the victims had been clients of Medi-Quick and since Steve was not, he should be safe. Even the profiling expert who had been brought in had confirmed that a switch in pattern was unlikely, and had suggested that the challenge was just to throw Steve off balance, citing the fact that several serial killers had taken great delight in taunting those set to catch them. It was all part of the need to feel in control.

Not that Steve hadn't considered that it might be better if the killer were coming after him, at least that would mean he wouldn't have to worry about another unknown innocent victim paying the price for his inability to catch the killer, but it hadn't seemed like an option, until now.

Steve walked across the room and sank onto one of the chairs. "How?" he asked, his eyes narrowing as he looked at his friend.

"Remember last year when Sally and I were having problems?" he asked rhetorically, pressing on without pause. "Well I was having a really rough time of it, down all the time and I couldn't seem to shake it, I ended up going to the doctor and he put me on this new drug to help with the moods." He paused and licked his lips. "It's called Prozac, you may have heard of it."

Steve nodded, he seemed to remember reading something about a new wonder drug.

"Well I didn't want Sally to know about it and I couldn't have it delivered to the station. So I. . " There was a longer pause. "I got them to deliver it in your name, told her that you were getting it delivered through me because you didn't want your dad to know about it." He pressed on now that the confession was out he needed to justify it, to apologise for it. "It seemed a harmless deception at the time, nobody would have known about it if it hadn't been for. . . I mean how was I to know that. . ." he finally stopped and looked Steve in the eye. "God, Steve if I had known I never would have. . . I'm sorry."

Steve's mind was reeling, he didn't know whether to be more annoyed at the deception or the fact that it had taken his 'friend' more than a week since the initial threat to come forward with this information. He pushed the boiling anger he felt down, he would deal with his reaction later, for now he needed to focus on the implications. With everything else they had it seemed a safe bet that the killer really did intend him as victim number six.

--

Several more fruitless days of investigation passed, not that they didn't acquire a wealth of information from their investigations, and the ongoing contact with Denver and St Louis, but still there was no clue to where the killer might have gone to ground. Frustratingly, the source that may have given them the most information, New York, the place where this all seemed to have started, was the one where least was forthcoming. The death of the detective who had handled the case still hampering their efforts at getting cooperation, it wasn't that the detectives there didn't want to cooperate, it was just they had too many open cases of their own to spend time going through someone else's records. Eventually Steve decided that enough was enough and he went to his Captain to request permission to fly up there himself to see what he could find.

The argument had been a fairly short one, Steve easily countering all of Captain Blackwell's objections, all other avenues of investigation had been hitting dead ends, so anything that they might pick up from the New York investigation, which might give them a new place to look, had to be worth checking on. Steve's final point, that the only alternative was to wait until the eighth of August, using himself as bait to see if they were right about who the killer would come after, had won his case and he had booked a ticket on the red eye.

Steve stopped off at the hospital on his way to the airport and was greeted by Jack as he made his way down the corridor to his father's office.

"Hey Steve," his friend called from behind, moving to catch up with him, he patted him on the shoulder. "I hear you're going to New York."

Steve nodded "Plane leaves at ten," he regarded his friend critically. "Let me guess, you've got some cousin up there that you'd like me to say hi to if I get the chance."

Jack grinned at him, "Well there is my cousin Vinny, lives up on the West Side, he knows the best place to get a cappuchino and cannoli in the whole state, if you get the chance. ."

"Jack,  I'm not going on vacation," Steve interrupted sharply, and instantly regretted it. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't snap it's just this case. . .  "

"Hey no problem," Jack said holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "Knowing you're the target of some whacked out killer can't be easy."

Steve shook his head, the comment was as near to an expression of concern as you could get from Jack. Not that he didn't care, Steve had occasionally seen him with his guard down and had realised just how deeply he did care for others, he knew that's what his father had seen in him when he'd taken him on as a protégé, but Jack had a persona, a front he maintained, that had been drummed into him by his upbringing and sometimes you had to look behind that to figure out what was really going on.

Relations between the two of them had been strained for a while after Jeff Hollowell had been killed. Jack was unable to get past the fact that if he had been warned Jeff might have avoided his fate. It was Mark who had got Jack to see that, even with a warning, there would have been no guarantees, and if it hadn't been Jeff it would probably have been someone else. Deep down Jack knew he was right and had let the anger go, he could see how much the case was eating up at his friend and had done his best to go back to being supportive.

"So how many cousins do you have exactly?" Steve asked getting the conversation back on track. He looked across as Jack's brow furrowed in concentration. 

"Is that in New York, or do you want the figure for the whole country?" Jack asked.

"On second thoughts," Steve smiled, "Maybe I don't want to know." 

"Hey if you'd like," Jack said, "I could give you a lift to the airport, save you leaving your truck there. I get off in ten minutes." Steve nodded his agreement. "OK I'll meet you by the entrance when I've got changed."

They had arrived at Mark's office and Jack continued down the corridor as Steve went in, smiling a greeting at his father's secretary Delores.

"I'm sorry, Steve, you just missed him," she said, regretfully "He was called to an emergency in the OR, he asked me to apologise, said you should call him in the morning."

"OK thanks," Steve said, trying to hide his disappointment. He wasn't sure if he'd called at the hospital for his own reassurance or his father's. Mark had seemed remarkably jumpy for the last few days and, although he hadn't really said anything, beyond discussing it in the context of the case, ever since the possibility of Steve being the killer's next target had become more of a probability, Steve had noticed subtle changes in the way his dad treated him. Nothing too overt, the odd look here and there, a slight tendency to want to see him a little more often, to let his gaze linger on him when they were together. If Steve hadn't known his father so well he might not have noticed it, but it was enough to make him change his own behaviour slightly, checking in a little more often in an attempt to allay his father's fears.

--

The ten o'clock flight got Steve into New York at 6am local time the next day and Steve made do with the fitful sleep he'd managed on the plane. Despite the fact that it was still only 3am in LA, he headed straight for the Manhattan precinct where the investigation had been based. After talking with several officers who were involved in the case and filling most of the morning, he spent most of the afternoon chasing up the evidence from where it was stored and tracking down Detective Jarvis' case files. 

It was late afternoon by the time he sat in a small dark office, and began to sift through the material he'd been given, and early evening when he made his first significant discovery. Picking up the files for Med -Speed, and musing that these courier firms didn't try very hard for original names, he opened it up and drew in a sharp intake of breath as he looked at the printout. Something had obviously been misaligned when the printer was set up because every section of information had the first two letters printed at the end of the line, with the rest printed on the line below, part of one mystery solved. He scanned down the sheets for the surname of the first victim, as he did so the sheet slid to one side and he noticed that the letters on that line exactly matched the letters on the same line of the page underneath, noticing further that that line corresponded to the profession of the second victim. 

Excited by his discovery, Steve looked for the rest of the victims and noticed similar corresponding alignments on the sheets for all of them. Pleased with himself he carefully replaced the sheets in the file. They still didn't have all of the why, but at least they had the beginnings of the pattern. Heartened, he set about sifting through the other evidence with a renewed vigour.

By midnight, however, he was flagging to the extent that he caught himself falling asleep halfway through reading a statement. Several times in the last few hours he had lamented not having his father or Jack or Amanda with him to help him sift through this and provide some insight from a different perspective. As he stood, having decided to call it a night, he decided to look into the possibility of being allowed to ship some of the material back to LA on a temporary basis. He was certain that there was something in here that would give him a clue as to where the killer had gone to ground, he just wasn't sure that he could find it alone.

--

Steve was bone weary by the time he got off the plane and was glad that he did not have to drive himself home, Jack was picking him up since Mark had had to work the late shift again. His powers of persuasion had eventually worked and he had most of the files that he had requested in shipping boxes on the trolley in front of him, but it had taken most of the day to first get the NYPD to agree to let him borrow the files and then to fill in the necessary paperwork, and then he'd had to endure the long flight back, the time difference making him lose out in both directions.

He was relieved to see the young doctor, waiting for him, all he really wanted to do was get home and lie down in a proper bed. He would deal with everything else in the morning. He did his best to fill Jack in on his findings on the trip back to the house, but eventually gave up when his constant yawns made it difficult to remain coherent.

Steve opened the door bringing his case, whilst Jack followed him in with one of the file boxes, he estimated it would take them three trips to get everything indoors and then he would finally be able to rest. He was heading towards his room to deposit his case when he heard the muffled cry behind him and heard the thud of the box hitting the floor. He whirled round, trying to shake off the tiredness as adrenaline flooded through his system, just in time to see Jack crumple to the floor. Behind him Simon Williams stood, and Steve found himself looking straight down the barrel of a gun.

"Good Evening, Sergeant Sloan, are you surprised to see me?"

Steve stared back at the man he knew had killed 23 people, refusing to let any fear show. "It's only August 3rd," he replied evenly. "Aren't you a little early?"

"Very good detective," Williams said, stepping over Jack's prone form, "but I figured that you may be taking a little too much care by the time it got to the 8th. Maybe setting a trap for me? So much better if you come with me now. You can stay as my guest until it's time."

"I'd rather not," Steve said, watching for an opening. He knew that if he went with this man now, the chances were the next time anyone saw him it would be with a bullet through the brain.

"Ah, unfortunately I'm afraid it's not optional." Williams said, gesturing with his gun, "So if you don't mind."

Steve began to move, carefully calculating the distance between himself and the killer, waiting for his opportunity.

Jack groaned, and shifted, it was all the distraction Steve needed and he launched himself at Williams, using all of his weight to knock the man over, grabbing for his gun hand at the same time. 

If Steve had been a little less tired he might have made it, but his reactions were just a little too slow. The gun went off as he knocked it out of the way, and he felt the heat sear across his shoulder even as his momentum carried them both down to the floor. The impact with the ground caused his shoulder to explode in a sea of pain, a white hot flash was the last thing he saw before his senses shut down.

Williams pushed Steve's body off him with a curse and took a deep breath to steady himself as he stood. He looked down at the spreading pattern of blood on the shoulder and tried to decide what to do. If he took him now he might not be able to keep him alive and it wasn't time yet, wouldn't be time for five more days. On the other hand, if he left him, he might not get the chance to get close again, and it had to be him. He kicked at the source of his frustration, eliciting a groan as he made his decision.


	10. A Near Miss and Some Promising Leads

**Chapter 10:  A Near Miss and Some Promising Leads**

Groaning again, Jack groggily reached out to touch the knot he could feel forming on the back of his head.  He pushed himself up onto one elbow and opened his eyes, instantly regretting it as the world swam alarmingly in front of him.  Through blurry vision, he could just make out a pair of legs in front of him.  Jack knew they didn't belong to Steve because he'd still been dressed in the dark suit he'd worn on the plane.  These legs, quickly making their way toward the door, were covered by tan pants.  In a desperate attempt to stop the stranger from getting away, Jack lunged toward the legs.  At that moment, his vision blurred again, and he squinted trying to get the two sets of legs to morph back into one.  Instead of a handful of material, his outstretched fingers met only air.  Jack landed on the floor with a soft thud and let the blackness overwhelm him.

---------------------------

Turning into the driveway, Mark sighed in relief.  He was glad to be home after a busier than normal late shift at the hospital.  In all honesty, he was also relieved Steve would be home from New York City.  Even though he knew his son was probably safer out of LA, it didn't stop Mark from wanting him nearby so he could periodically see him and reassure himself Steve was okay.  Ever since his graduation from the police academy, Mark had reconciled himself to the fact that Steve would sometimes be placed in dangerous situations in the line of duty.  There was a big difference, however, between the vague threat of unknown danger and the actuality of being the target of a serial killer.  They had five days in which to catch the man responsible for all of these killings and eliminate the danger Steve was in.  Mark intended to accomplish that seemingly impossible task.  

Mark was mildly surprised to see lights on inside the beach house and Jack's car parked in the driveway.  After his conversation with Steve earlier in the day, he'd expected his son to be sound asleep by now.  Mark's brow creased as he thought about how tired Steve had sounded on the phone.  This case was beginning to exact a huge physical and emotional toll.  When it was over, he'd have to try to persuade Steve to take some time off.  _Maybe the plane was delayed and Steve just got home, _Mark thought_.  That would explain why Jack was still here._

Pleased by the thought of actually seeing his son before he went to sleep, Mark hurriedly parked his car and climbed the steps.  He automatically reached out to stick the key in the lock and paused, startled, when the door gently swung open.  The lines in Mark's forehead deepened.  Something didn't feel right about the situation.  No matter how tired he was Steve would never forget to lock the door especially now when he was a target.  

Setting his bag down next to the door, Mark looked around for some type of weapon.  His eyes found the hammer he'd been using the day before to secure a shutter that had blown loose in the last storm.  He hadn't taken the time to put it away and now he was glad he hadn't.  Hefting it in his hand, Mark was satisfied it would inflict enough damage to slow someone down if in fact someone other than Steve and Jack was in the house.

Cautiously pushing the door the rest of the way open, Mark stepped over the threshold.  He nearly stumbled over a box that had been carelessly left in the middle of the floor, its contents scattered across the room.  Glancing around, he debated about calling out but decided against it.  He didn't want to alert the wrong person to his presence.  Taking a few more steps, Mark saw the body lying on the floor in a crumpled heap.  He dropped the hammer and rushed forward.

"Jack!"

Mark quickly examined Jack searching for any injuries.  His fingers brushed against the knot on the back of the young doctor's head and that slight pressure was enough to cause Jack to groan.  "Jack?  Jack, can you hear me?"  Mark asked

Jack's eyes fluttered open and focused blurrily on Mark.  He swallowed hard a couple of times then rubbed a shaky hand over his face.  "Man, I feel like I've been hit by a truck," he croaked.  Touching the knot, he winced.  "Help me sit up."

Easing Jack into a sitting position, Mark couldn't stop the questions that tumbled from his mouth.  "What happened?  And where's Steve?"

"Ahhh…." Jack sifted through his memories while trying to ignore the pounding in his head.  "I picked Steve up at the airport and drove him here.  He was on his way to his apartment to drop off his carry on bag, and I had one of the boxes of files.  We were going to put all of the boxes in the dining room for tonight.  Next thing I know, I'm getting clobbered from behind."

"What happened to Steve?"

"I…I don't know.  I must've blacked out for a minute after I got hit."

Mark was on his feet in an instant.  A feeling of dread had started in his stomach the minute he'd found the unlocked door and it grew as he encountered room after empty room.  He burst into Steve's apartment hoping his son might be there but was finally forced to admit the only people in the house were himself and Jack.  _The beach, _Mark thought suddenly.  _Maybe Steve got away and is hiding out on the beach._

Jack was still sitting on the floor when Mark returned from searching the house.  As concerned as he was about Steve, Mark knew Jack needed medical attention for his probable concussion.  "Steve isn't in the house," he reported, "but I'm going to check outside.  Then I'll call you an ambulance."

"Wait.  There's something else."  Jack concentrated very hard on putting his scrambled thoughts in order again.  "I remember hearing a noise.  It was familiar…something I'd heard before…" he trailed off, his gaze fixed on a stain on the floor.  A stain that looked suspiciously like blood.  The memory rocketed to the front of Jack's consciousness.  "It was a gunshot.  Mark, the sound I heard was a shot."  He looked up at Mark then pointed to the floor.  "And that's blood, probably Steve's, because his gun was still locked in his bag.  I remember him saying at the airport he wasn't going to bother to get it out for the drive home."

Despite being a little unsteady on his feet, Jack insisted on accompanying Mark outside as he searched for Steve.  Fifteen fruitless minutes later, Mark was forced to conclude that Steve was missing and, in all probability, being held by Simon Williams. 

---------------------------

The first streaks of sunlight were just coming over the horizon when the last police car pulled out of Mark's driveway.  Every available officer had been sent to canvass the neighbourhood and assist the crime scene unit in gathering evidence.  More blood had been found on the porch reinforcing the belief that Steve had been shot during the encounter with Williams.  Captain Blackwell had arrived to supervise the investigation and had promised Mark that every available resource would be used in the search for Steve.

A quick call to the hospital reassured Mark that Jack was resting comfortably suffering from nothing worse than a concussion.  He'd stubbornly refused medical assistance from the paramedics who'd been dispatched by the emergency operator insisting on staying to give his statement to the police.  Mark hadn't pressed the issue but instead had called Amanda.  After hearing a condensed version of the night's events, she had immediately driven to the beach house.  It had taken all her powers of persuasion, but Amanda had finally been able to convince Jack to go with her to the hospital for medical attention. 

In the quiet light of the early morning, Mark realized just how tired he was.  Trying to sleep would be futile though.  He could not rest while the fate of his son was unknown.  Mark knew instinctively that if the gunshot Steve had sustained in the kidnapping hadn't been fatal then he was still alive.  Serial killers rarely deviated from their set patterns.  There was a pattern to be completed and that meant it was highly likely Simon Williams would do everything he could, short of taking him to a hospital, to ensure Steve stayed alive until August 8th so he could finish his pattern.  If he didn't finish the pattern, he would consider it a failure. 

Mark wandered through the house unsure of what to do next.  He wiped up the blood from the floor wishing he could wipe away his fear as easily.  It was as if that fear had paralysed his mind and was interfering with his normal rational thinking skills.  Mark paced by the box of New York City files several times before stopping to stare at it.  He recalled Jack telling the detectives he'd only carried in one box before he and Steve were attacked and that Steve had planned to start going through them in the morning after a few hours sleep.  Mark's resolved hardened.  Steve may not have had a chance to thoroughly search the boxes, but nothing was stopping him from going through them.  Making a pot of coffee, Mark carried in the other boxes from Jack's car.  He settled down at his desk, slipped on his glasses and lifted the lid of the first box.

---------------------------

Simon Williams pulled the van to the curb and turned to glare at his unconscious passenger tied up in the back.  _It wasn__'__t supposed to be this way, _Williams thought angrily.  _You weren__'__t supposed to get shot yet.  That__'__s not how the ritual works._

It had been a calculated risk on his part to approach his detective a full five days before he was meant to die but one he'd felt he'd had to take.  He had hoped Steve wouldn't start putting all the pieces together until it was too late to set a trap or put any precautions in place to safeguard his well-being.  After watching Ed Flanagan hand Sergeant Sloan the letter he'd left in his former office, Williams had realized he would have to speed up his timetable and grab his detective while he still had the chance.  Two straight nights of watching the beach house had been a waste of time, and he'd debated about even going again, but some sixth sense had sent him back to the quiet neighbourhood.  His patience had been rewarded when his detective had returned home trailed by one of his doctor friends.

Williams looked back at his detective again.  It had been a while since he'd made any noise, he realized.  Climbing in the back of the van, Williams felt the side of Steve's neck for a pulse.  He was pleased when he felt the strong, regular beat and could see the rise and fall of his chest.  He needed Steve alive on the eighth to fulfil his ritual.  To have him die early would ruin all his careful planning. 

Setting the van in motion again, Williams reviewed his plan.  The first order of business was to check the news to see if his detective's disappearance was being publicized.  He knew all law enforcement agencies would be briefed to be on the lookout for anything suspicious, but he needed to know if the public would be watching for him too.  Up to now, the police had released very few details of his killings to the media and even had hesitated to publicly declare it the work of a serial killer.  The disappearance of a cop might force them to re-evaluate that strategy.  He'd also been very careful not to leave anything behind that could identify him especially pictures of himself.  The police had a rough sketch but it wasn't nearly as accurate as an actual photo.  This significantly decreased the chance of being recognized.  Once he'd seen the morning news, he'd stop at a used car dealer and purchase a new vehicle.  He didn't want to get rid of the van, but he couldn't take the chance that someone in the neighbourhood had seen him watching the beach house and eventually would make the connection and call the police.

--------------------

Detective Saul Elliot quickly swallowed two antacid tablets hoping they'd ease the burning he'd had in his stomach ever since he'd been notified that Steve Sloan had disappeared.  He knew he was responsible for getting Steve into this situation.  After all, if Steve's name hadn't been on the list of Medi-Quick customers, Simon Williams would've had no reason to target him.  The veteran detective sighed.  What was done was in the past, and the self-recriminations weren't helping to find Steve.  Saul knew he had to be the one to make up for what he'd started with his seemingly innocent deception.  The only way he could do that was to find his colleague before the eighth.  If they found him before then, they had a very good chance of finding him alive but if they didn't…Saul swallowed two more antacid tablets.  He didn't even want to consider that possibility.

----------------------- 

The darkness was overwhelming.  Steve shifted in his cramped prison trying to find a position that would ease the fire in his shoulder and the ache in his back.  The first time he'd regained consciousness after the shooting at the beach house he'd found himself in a basement.  A quick visual inspection had revealed no clues or a way out.  The windows were too high and too small to climb out of and the one door had been locked from the outside.  A short while later Simon Williams had shown up.  Steve had stared silently at the man he knew to be responsible for at least 23 deaths across the country while, in a conversational tone, Williams had told him of his plan to hold him until the time was right to finish the ritual.  Steve had listened to the one sided conversation with a growing certainty that, if he didn't do something to try and save himself, the next time he'd be seen was with a bullet hole in his head.  No one knew better than he how elusive Simon Williams was and how slim the chances were of being found before the ritual was completed.

Ignoring his pain, Steve had rushed at Williams the instant he'd turned his back.  For a moment, the element of surprise had played in Steve's favour, but then his limited strength had given out and Williams had regained the advantage.  Already off balance, a rough shove had been enough to send Steve sprawling to the floor where he landed on his injured shoulder.  The pain had been excruciating and he'd welcomed the blackness that gave him relief.

Steve tried shifting again but the confined space severely limited his ability to move.  When he'd regained consciousness a second time, the blackness and the feeling of motion had momentarily disoriented him.  With a start, Steve had realized he was in the trunk of a car.  He wondered what had caused Williams to decide to move him.  The basement had been secure and, in his physical condition, he was no threat to try to escape.

Keeping his mind blank, Steve concentrated on his breathing to keep the pain at bay.  Each bump and pothole in the road jarred his throbbing shoulder.  Suddenly, the car began to slow down and then it came to a stop.  Tensing, Steve readied himself for whatever was coming next.

----------------------------

Driving the dark, nondescript sedan, Simon Williams felt the protective cloak of anonymity settle around him again.  Using the white van any longer was too big of a risk.  In a couple of days, it would be found in the shopping mall parking ramp.  It would take the police a few more hours to track the owner and only then would they discover he was already dead.  If they even connected the van to him, a forensics team would find no physical evidence.  He had made sure of that before abandoning the van.

Williams chuckled to himself as he thought about how absurdly easy it had been to buy the car he was driving.  He had parked the van in an out of the way corner of the ramp, made sure Sergeant Sloan was securely bound and gagged, and walked the short distance to the used car dealer.  After explaining he wanted something sturdy and conservative and flashing a roll of bills, the salesman had led him straight to the sedan.  A quick glance was all Williams had needed to assure himself the car would suit his needs.  Less than an hour later, he was driving away, the forged registration and license tucked safely in his pocket.  He had returned to the parking ramp, transferred a still unconscious Steve into the trunk of the car and cleaned out the van.

Williams had only driven a few miles when a police car came up behind him its lights flashing and the driver motioning for him to pull over.  He debated about just flooring the accelerator and speeding away then decided that would call too much unwanted attention to himself.  He would pull over and bluff his way through the interview.  If things went badly, then he could always make a run for it.

Adjusting the baseball hat he wore, Williams watched the officer approach the car.  _He__'__s probably still wet behind the ears,_ he sneered silently.  _This should be a snap.  _

The young officer rapped on the window and Williams rolled it down about two inches.  "What can I do for you, Officer?"

"Sir, you have a tail light out which is a violation."

"I do?  I didn't realize it."

"I see you still have the sticker from the car dealer in your window.  Did you recently purchase the vehicle?"

"Just picked it up this morning.  I, uh, kicked the tires and played the radio, but," Williams laughed self-consciously, "I guess I forgot to check the lights."

"Well, I'll let you off with a warning this time but, if I were you, I'd take the car back to where you got it and insist they fix your light."

"I'll do that, Officer," Williams peered at the young man's nametag, "Fischer.  Thank you so much."

"You're welcome."  Officer Fischer was about to turn away when Williams's baseball hat caught his eye.  "Hey, I can't believe you're wearing a Colorado Rockies cap.  Are you a hockey fan?"  

"Not particularly."

"I haven't seen one of those caps in years.  Of course, it's probably been about 10 years since they last played a game.  The Rockies ended up moving to New Jersey, and that's where I grew up. Hockey is a little more popular back east than here in Southern California.  Nobody has much interest in the LA Kings.  Somebody didn't show much imagination when they named the baseball team the Rockies too, huh?  Did you live in Denver?  Is that where you got the cap?"

Williams was growing decidedly uncomfortable with the chatty police officer.  "I picked it up at a second hand store when I was passing through.  Look, I hate to be rude, but am I free to go?"

"Oh sure.  Sorry about that.  Just remember to get that light fixed."

Nodding impatiently, Williams rolled up his window.  He waited until the officer had stepped back from the car before putting it in gear.  Then, without a backward glance, he merged into traffic and drove away.

----------------------------

Amanda reached for the next file from the box and opened it to the first page.  She had finally convinced Mark to get some rest and let her continue going through the files from New York City.  Glancing over her shoulder, she checked on Jack who was sleeping on the sofa.  As soon as he'd awakened, he had checked himself out of the hospital and taken a cab to the beach house anxious to help in the search for Steve.  It had become apparent to both Mark and Amanda almost immediately that Jack wasn't sufficiently recovered from his concussion to be of much help in going through the files.  His feeble protests had been quickly overruled and it wasn't long before he was asleep on the sofa.

The doorbell rang interrupting Amanda's concentration.  Frowning, she set aside the file she was reading and went to answer the door.  The man standing on the porch looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn't place from where she knew him.  

"May I help you?"

"I'm Detective Saul Elliot.  I'd like to speak with Doctor Sloan please."

Amanda recognized the name.  This was the man who, however inadvertently, had put Steve in danger.  He'd also been in the house this morning.  "Doctor Sloan is resting right now."

"I have some new information on the search for Steve.  I'd like to give him an update."

Amanda's gaze lingered on the detective's face a moment before deciding he seemed sincere.  Opening the door wider, she invited him inside.  She led him through the living room, absently noting Jack had slept through the doorbell, and out to the deck.

"Wait here, please."

Saul nodded silently and watched as Amanda slipped back inside the house.  He had recognized her as one of the doctors who'd been at the house early this morning with Doctor Sloan.  Turning, he scanned the beach for anything suspicious relaxing slightly when the only person he saw was a single jogger.  He was so engrossed in the view that Saul didn't realize Mark had joined him on the deck until he spoke.

"Detective Elliot."

Saul faced the man whose son's life hung in the balance.  Acid ate away at his stomach as he took in Mark's pale and anxious face.  "Thank you for agreeing to see me, Doctor Sloan."

"Amanda said you have new information in the search for my son."

Saul nodded.  "I've spent the day re-interviewing witnesses.  I think I have a couple of promising new leads." 

"You know where Simon Williams is?"

"No, unfortunately we don't.  We have every law enforcement agency in California looking for him, but without a decent picture we may see him and not even realize it's him."  Saul paused.  "That might change though."

"What do you mean?"

"I went back to his apartment and talked to the manager again.  It seems that Williams always paid his rent in cash except for once a couple of months ago.  He gave the manager a cashier's check.  Fortunately, the manager is a thorough businessman and he had a record of that cashier's check.  We traced it back to a local check-cashing store not far from the apartment complex and talked to the owner.  Not surprisingly, he could not remember the specific cashier's check, but he did have the tapes from his security cameras.  We were able to go back and pinpoint an approximate time Williams would've bought the check."  Saul reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a picture.  "Although not absolutely certain, we think this is Simon Williams.  I've dispatched a detective to Medi-Quick with a copy of the picture so Ed Flanagan can confirm it for us."

Mark took the picture and looked at it closely.  The man's face was partially obscured by a baseball hat and the grainy quality made it difficult to pick out any specific features, but he agreed the person in the picture did bear a resemblance to the police artist's sketch.  Silently he passed it to Amanda.  "What's the logo on the baseball cap?  Can it be used to trace him?"

"We don't know.  We're still working on identifying it.  For all we know, it may just be a random design."

Mark nodded in resignation.  "You said you had _a couple _of promising leads.  What else have you found out?"

"One of your neighbours remembers seeing a white van parked down the street last night shortly before Steve disappeared."

"Why wasn't this mentioned this morning?"

"Apparently this person was on his way to work when he noticed the van and wasn't home when the uniforms canvassed the neighbourhood.  I met him this afternoon when I was revisiting the neighbours.  The interesting thing is he wasn't the only neighbour to notice a strange van in the past couple of days.  The uniforms talked to someone this morning who'd remembered seeing a plain white van parked in front of her house two nights ago."

"So it's possible he'd been stalking Steve waiting for a chance to grab him."

"That's what we think.  Now the description was pretty vague from both of the witnesses.  The van didn't have any distinguishing marks or lettering on it.  The man tried to read the license plate, but it was covered with dirt so we're not going to get any help there.  The DMV is running a list of all white vans registered in the area, but realistically it's going to be long.  It's a popular model."  Saul felt a pang of guilt when he saw Mark nod dejectedly.  "Doctor Sloan, even if I have to stop every white van in the city, I will follow up on this lead.  You never know when we might get lucky and catch a break."

Having delivered his new information and anxious to follow up on his leads, Detective Elliot quickly made his escape.  Amanda and Mark returned to the boxes of files that had taken over the dining room table.  Amanda could see the hope warring with the fear and worry in Mark's eyes.  She watched as he sat down and picked up one of the folders.

"Do you really think Steve expected to find anything in these files?"  Amanda asked.

"I don't know," Mark replied, "but I have to go through them.  He obviously thought there might be something here or he wouldn't have brought them back.  I have to do _something_ to help find Steve and right now this is the only thing that I can think of."

----------------------------

It was the end of the day and Officer Fischer had finished his shift.  He was heading toward the locker room to change when he passed one of his police academy buddies coming from the evening briefing.  "Rough day?" his friend asked.

"Not bad," Officer Fischer replied.  "Anything interesting in the briefing?"

"Most of the time was spent talking about the search for Sergeant Sloan.  One of the neighbours saw a white van parked in the neighbourhood but couldn't get a license plate so we're supposed to be on the lookout for any vehicle matching the description."

"Good luck on that one."

"Tell me about it.  They also have a picture of somebody they think might be Simon Williams.  It's not great, but it's something else to work with in addition to the sketch."

"Can I see it?"

"Sure."  The officer sorted through his papers from the briefing and pulled one out.  "I imagine you'll get the same information in the morning."

The first thing Officer Fischer noticed when he looked at the picture was the baseball hat.  With a start, he realized he'd seen a hat just like that earlier in the day.  Of course it was possible two people could have the same cap but, in his gut, he knew it was highly unlikely.  

The other officer noticed Fischer staring intently at the picture.  "What's wrong?"  he asked.  

"That hat, I saw one just like it today when I did a traffic stop."

"So?  Baseball hats are pretty common."

"Not this one."  He explained what the logo was.  "Didn't Sergeant Sloan say Williams had spent some time in Denver?"

The officer nodded.  "He thought he might've come from there."

Horrified, Officer Fischer continued to stare at the picture.  "You know what this means don't you?"

"Yep.  You probably had our guy and didn't even know it."  


	11. St Peter is Waiting

**St Peter is Waiting**

All he could think about was the pain, Steve didn't know where he was, and to be quite honest he didn't really care, he just wanted to be free of the pain. In the end though he forced his eyes open and looked around him and he knew he was in deep trouble.

The room was about ten feet square; there was a bed, which he was laying on, a bare bulb hanging down from the middle of a high ceiling, a chair made of plain wood, although it looked like it had been used for decorating as it was splattered with paint. There was a door, but it didn't even have a handle on the inside. It used to have; Steve could see a plate over where the knob would have been, but now it had nothing except a cat flap, and as he stared at it, wondering whether he was about to be joined by feline company, it moved and a bottle of water and two pieces of bread appeared through it on a small plastic plate.

"Hey! Hey, Williams, come here!" _Come here, oh, good one, Sloan, like he's gonna take notice of that_ Steve berated himself, and he heard a laugh which disappeared as his captor moved away from his door.

Carefully, slowly, Steve placed his feet on the floor and tested his legs, his head swum as he stood and he collapsed back on the bed again the pain searing through his shoulder as he did so and he felt the unmistakable sensation of fresh blood on his skin. He needed the water though, not only because he felt like he hadn't had a drink in a week, but because he could use it to clean his wound and maybe stop his shirt and jacket from sticking in it. Steve lay back down, the spinning room was making him feel sick again, and he knew he had lost, was still losing, a lot of blood … and something told him that he may well not make it until the 8th, and he got a perverse pleasure out of knowing that he would break his killer's ritual.

"There has to be something here, Steve wouldn't have hauled it all the way from New York unless he thought there was information that we could use." Mark slapped a folder down on the table as he spoke and then stood up. "Why can't I see it, why can't I see what is staring me in the face? My son's life depends on it and I can only see words, and letters and no clues, no clues at all."

Amanda stayed where she was, she knew that Mark didn't expect an answer to his questions, and she also knew that right now a kind word or gentle touch might push him closer to the edge of despair than he wanted to get.

Mark walked out onto the deck and he could see his son in his mind's eye, leaning on the rail, watching the waves crash to the shore, and his heart came a little closer to breaking.  The sun was almost at the top of its arc in the sky, the beach was busy and Mark could see parents sitting watching their children make sand castles, or running in and out of the sea with them. There was one family who were on Steve's dune, the place he always went when standing on the deck wasn't quite enough for him, and he would sit there, sometimes for hours, going over and over details, conversations and messages until he got a glimpse of what it was he was looking for.

As Mark stood there, almost on cue, the family stood up, brushed the sand off their clothes and collected up their belongings. Without thinking Mark made his way down the stairs and out onto the beach. By the time he arrived at the dune it was deserted and, hoping it would help him the way it helped Steve, he sat down and tried to cast his mind back over all they had discovered so far.

The house that Simon Williams was staying in had been rented when he first arrived in LA, and although he hadn't used it much he had made sure it had everything he needed in it. The freezer had food enough for one for a month, the electric, water and gas was paid for monthly out of a checking account that he never used for anything else, and it had a garage big enough for him to park his car with another one in front of it so no one would see it unless they were very nosey. What it didn't have though was a first aid kit, and Simon knew that if something wasn't done soon then he would have a dead body on his hands, and that couldn't be.

Simon sat down at the kitchen table and began to think. The plan couldn't fail, not now, when he was so close. He wished that his doctor had been carrying his medical bag when he had killed him, although once he had his medicine he knew he wouldn't have taken the bag anyway … medicine, where was Sloan's medicine? With a low growl escaping him he got to his feet and began to climb the stairs to the attic.

Steve wasn't sure how long he had been laying on the bed, or whether he had managed to remain conscious for the entire time, but the sound of the door being unlocked caused his heart to beat faster, and his head to swim. Suddenly he felt a hand on his left arm and he was pulled to his feet.

"Where is it?" William's voice was taut and Steve knew, even through the confusion he felt, that the man was almost at breaking point.

"What … what, where is …" Steve swayed and felt a hand on his other arm and the pain intensified. "Arghhh, no … please …"

"Shut up and tell me where it is!" Simon shook Steve and heard him scream before collapsing limply in his arms.

"Officer Fischer, this is Detective Saul Elliot, you will be assigned to work with him until we find Detective Sloan." Captain Blackwell looked at the extremely nervous young man and smiled. He knew he was a capable officer, and he also knew that he felt very badly over what had happened with the baseball cap.

"Thank you, Sir, I … I won't let you down again, I'm sorry, Sir." Stuart Fischer looked down at his feet and wished the ground would swallow him up. He'd had Detective Sloan's captor right there, in his grasp and he'd let him go, he didn't think he would ever shift the awful feeling of guilt that was sitting in his stomach, and he knew that he had to find him, to do something to make sure that the very popular Detective wasn't killed because of his incompetence.

"Officer, look at me." Captain Blackwell's tone made the young man snap to attention.

"Sir?"

"You are not to blame in any way, shape or form, for the fact that Steve Sloan is still missing. Nobody knew the type of car his captor was driving until you pulled him over. Nobody knew, really, what he looked like or sounded like, but now we do. You have given us a first class description, and more than that, like I said, you warned him, which means he has to report to a police station in the next day or so and, as he has no reason to even consider that you made him, I am anticipating that he will do exactly that." The Captain was heartened to see that his words seemed to have got through and Fischer smiled just for a moment before nodding and then, knowing that they were dismissed, the two men left the Captain's office and he was left alone with his thoughts.

Blackwell kept a very close eye on the men and women in his division, but if he was honest he had a very soft spot for those in Robbery/Homicide, and the fact that one of the best and the brightest of his men was missing grieved him greatly. He knew that Steve was almost ready to be thinking about promotion, that he would make a very good police lieutenant, and even captain one day, if fate didn't get in his way, which right now looked like a very real possibility. With a shake of his head Captain Blackwell turned his attention back to the paperwork on his desk although his heart and mind weren't really in it.

Saul Elliot sat at his desk and waited while his new young, and he hoped very temporary, partner pulled up a chair. "Right, we need to get a picture done of this baseball cap." Saul popped two antacid tablets into his mouth and picked up the phone. "I'll get Johansen up here to do the drawing, but you could start sketching it out yourself while we wait."

"Yes, Sir, I have already done that." Stuart pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pants pocket and smoothed it down with his hand as he laid it flat on the desk. "I'll just rough it out again."  Gradually an image emerged of a red baseball cap with a white mountain outlined on it. Inside the mountain was blue with a white stripe going horizontally across it. The middle of the stripe was covered with a red C that had a solid yellow circle in the middle of it. "You know it was a great hat, he said he got it from a second hand store when he was passing through Denver, I guess it could be true, I don't know."

"Yeah, well this guy's killed twenty three people so far, so why the hell you think he should have suddenly decided to be an ideal citizen just because you were there and liked his hat beats me." Saul spat his words out and was ashamed of his feeling of pleasure as the young man moved back in his chair.

"Hey, look, I'm sorry, ok? If I had known who he was he would be here right now, and so would Detective Sloan, but I didn't, and he isn't, and I'm doing all I can to change that." Stuart felt the unfairness of the whole situation hit him as he got the rough end of the older detective's tongue and he grabbed his first version of the baseball cap drawing, screwed it up into a ball and threw it at the wastebasket, where it bounced on the rim and then fell in. The young man smiled; perhaps it was a good omen.

Simon had dropped Steve onto the bed and then he sat in the chair and waited, there wasn't really anything else he could do. He had checked all the pockets in his prisoner's suit and found nothing. Prozac, he knew that his detective took Prozac, and so he began to think. It was an anti depressant, not something you would carry with you, so he must have had it at the house, taken it each morning, and then forgotten all about it. Damn! He had to have it; the ritual demanded it of him. Making a decision Simon stood up, took one more look at the unconscious form on the bed and then departed.

Mark had sat on the dune for just over twenty minutes and found that it cleared his mind wonderfully. He guessed that maybe he had misinterpreted what his son was doing when he was on the sand; he wasn't looking for clues, but ridding himself of all the contradictory, busy thoughts so that he could return to his caseload and focus once more. With this thought raising his spirits Mark stood up and made his way back into the house, he smiled at Amanda, who had obviously felt her mind go into overload too, as she was sitting on one of the comfy chairs with her feet up underneath her flicking through a magazine.

"Hey, Mark, have you come back for another session?" Amanda hurriedly put her reading matter down and tried to stand up.

"I have, Honey, are you up to it do you think? Only if not I can recommend a very comfy sand dune." Mark smiled and held out his hand to help his friend to her feet.

"No, I like the comfort of springs thank you. Now, I will go put the coffee on and then we can get back down to it."

Mark nodded and watched as she made her way out to his kitchen, then he turned his attention to the other occupant of the room, Jack Stewart, who was still fast asleep. Carefully Mark felt the pulse on the side of his neck, knowing that it would be steady and strong, but still needing to do it. The pressure was just enough to make the young man stir and he groaned as he moved.

"Shhh, Jack, it's ok, I was just checking on you." Mark felt instantly guilty and pulled the covers up, hoping it would appease his patient.

"Ohhh, Mark, are you sure it wasn't a truck that hit me?"

"No, I think I would have noticed the tire marks in the carpet!" Mark grinned; Jack knew just what had happened to him, which was a good sign, as was the wry expression that crossed his face.

"Oh, ha ha, I'm a sick man, y'know." The light moment was welcome, but passed immediately. "Did you find anything yet?"

"No, but I am just about to start again." Mark heard Amanda come back towards him, and then she too crouched down to be at Jack's level.

"Hey, sleepyhead, how are you feeling?"

"Not as bad as I did, in fact I think I could get up and help." Jack looked pleadingly in Mark's direction and was relieved when he got a small nod in reply. "Great, so what are we looking at?" Jack wanted to leap up and move over to the table in a single bound, but he knew that was unrealistic, and so carefully he put one foot tentatively in front of the other and made his way, erratically, towards the pile of folders and notes. His foot caught the leg of the chair and he swayed, but he was determined. "I'm ok, better than ok, I'm fine, and I will be sitting down!" He eased himself into the chair, rested his arms on the table and waited for the world to calm itself down a little.

Mark and Amanda had watched his short journey anxiously, knowing that any help they could offer would not be taken willingly. "Well," Mark smiled at Amanda, "I guess now he's there, he'd better stay where he is, at least until the room stops spinning." When there was no denial from Jack they both shook their heads and made their way to their own seats.

"Ok, Jack, you really didn't miss anything because so far we haven't found anything, but I want to try to join the victims up. I was sitting outside and I realised something."

"What?" Amanda's eager question cut across Mark and she looked a little sheepish. "Sorry."

"No problem, this guy Williams, he's methodical, right?" Mark wasn't interrupted this time, but both Amanda and Jack nodded their heads, although Jack's was very slight. "So, maybe there is another one, two or maybe even more patterns that he follows, patterns that we haven't seen because we didn't have all the pieces of the puzzle before." Mark's eyes were shining now, and he was eager to get on.

"But we still don't have all the pieces. The paperwork from St Louis and Denver are at the station." Amanda didn't want to discourage Mark but she felt she ought to temper his enthusiasm a little.

"No, I know that, but if we can find a link between New York and LA then we can go to the precinct and I'll bet we'll find that it works with the other two places too." 

"Ok, well we have our own notes on the LA killings, so I'll use them, and you give me the information you find from New York, Jack …" Amanda stopped talking for a moment as she noticed the decidedly green tinge to her friend. "Maybe you should just listen."

"Sounds good to me." Jack rested his head in his hands. He had a feeling it hadn't been such a good idea to get up, but now he was here, he had no intention of making the reverse journey.

The drug store was a small out of the way place, and Simon was sure that they wouldn't have any sort of video security. He parked his car a way up the street, so that it wasn't recognizable as belonging to him, and then he pulled his hat down over his face a little and made his way along the sidewalk. He had bought himself an LA cap at a gas station about two miles back, not wanting to risk his Rockies one again.

"Yes, Sir, what can I do for you?" The lady in the drug store was about fifty or sixty years old, and Simon smiled at her.

"I need a first aid kit. I'm going hunting and so it needs to be pretty extensive do you have that sort of thing?"

"We do, in fact we have a wonderful selection, my son, he works for a first aid supplier, and I always get to try his new items out first. Now, young man, I would suggest this one … have you hunted before?" The lady had a brochure in her hands almost immediately and she opened it to the first page and turned it round.

"I have, Ma'am, but my companion is a first timer." Simon smiled and silently cheered his luck, things were still going his way, and suddenly he knew that he would succeed.

"Well, then I would definitely recommend this. It is called The Survivor's First Aid Kit, and it has just about everything you could ever think of, from something to help you with poison ivy right up to everything you would need to get your foot out of a trap or, heaven forbid, if someone has an accident with their gun, well, you will be able to treat it for a little while, just long enough to get you back to civilization."

"That sounds like what I need, how much is it?"

"I'm afraid, young man, it's not cheap, but I can let you have it for $175. Which is $25 less than it will be selling for, like I said, my Joey works for the company, and I'll still be making a little profit."

Simon froze, almost two hundred dollars, he didn't think he had that much left. He would have to check. "Ma'am, I just need to see how much cash I have on me, would you mind waiting a minute?"

"Not at all, and I'll turn away to give you a little privacy. I'll go and get the kit so you can see what you are getting for your money." With that the woman moved away down the store, and Simon took his wallet out of his pocket and began rummaging through it. 

"Amanda, where was the first victim in New York found?"

"Um, hold on, I'll check." Amanda looked through the notes she had made. "Terence Armitage, found in Chelsea Park, just off Tenth Avenue, why?"

"How about the sixth victim?" Mark already knew the answer, he just wanted it confirmed by someone else.

Amanda ran her finger down the list she had in front of her and then looked up, a puzzled expression on her face. "Joanne Middleton, she was found in Chelsea Park too, that can't be right can it?"

"If it is then we know where Steve's …" Mark paused, the blood draining from his face as he realised what he was about to say. He took a breath, shook his head to stop Amanda from finishing his sentence for him and continued. "We know where Steve will be found if we don't stop this madman. We need to go to the station, check the information that they have on St Louis and Denver. Maybe this was what Steve was working on when he had to catch his plane back."

"Mark, wouldn't it be quicker to just call the station?" Amanda moved over towards the phone as she spoke.

"Yes, it would, but, Sweetie, think about it, no one at the station knows that we are working on this, we may have a hard time persuading them to help us in person, I think it is a total non-starter over the phone."

"You could be right. Ok, I'll drive you, Mark, I don't want you going there on your own."

"I'm not even gonna try to argue with you, I don't think I could concentrate on the road right now." Mark stood up and straightened his aching back. "When this is over, when Steve is home again …" He looked at his two friends as if daring them to contradict him, "I am gonna soak in the tub for a week."

"Come on, Mark … Whoa…" Jack stood up, swayed and was extremely grateful when both Amanda and Mark caught an arm each.

"Oh, no, you don't, Doctor Stewart, you are gonna spend your afternoon on the sofa fast asleep… And there will be no arguments either. Doctor's orders." Amanda folded her arms and glared at her friend and a smile escaped her as she saw him nod his head and make his way carefully back to the couch, lay down and let Mark cover him back up, all without a word. "That's better. Now, Jack, there is water there on the coffee table. The TV remote is there too, but you'll give yourself a headache. We'll lock everything up and be back before you can even begin to feel lonely."

"Ok, Mom, can I have a couple of cookies in case I feel hungry?"

"Nope, but there are some crackers in the kitchen, I'll just get them." Mark rushed to the kitchen and returned almost immediately with a packet of graham crackers and another bottle of water. "We'll see you later, Jack." There wasn't any reply, and Mark and Amanda looked down affectionately at their friend, who was asleep again already.

The drug store was soon far behind Simon as he made his way, by a long and convoluted route, back to Malibu. He knew now what he had to do, it wouldn't make any difference to the ritual, to the way things had to be, the doctor would just be one more piece of evidence to be removed before he moved on to Washington DC. He already had his job lined up there, the letterhead he had taken from various companies around the city already typed up with references which would get him a job any place any time. Simon put his head back and laughed, he just loved it when everything worked, he was meant to have a few hiccups, they kept him on his toes, but his detective would die in four days, there was no doubt about that.

Jack wasn't sure what it was that woke him, but suddenly every nerve ending in his body was jangling, and headache or no headache he knew that something was wrong, and he was the only person able to deal with it. He stood up, carefully, and moved around the table, looking around for something to take with him as he checked the house. He wanted to call out, to check whether it was Mark or Amanda, coming in quietly so as not to disturb him, but deep inside he knew that they would have come straight to him, not crept into the kitchen or the bathroom before telling him they were home.

As he moved into the kitchen Jack saw a block with five knives in it, and he pulled one of them out. It was used for cutting bread, and was way too big for what he wanted. As he slid it back into its home he heard a slight sound and then the unmistakable feeling of a gun on the back of his neck.

"I don't want to have to hit you again, Doctor, so I would suggest that you make your way to the front door real slow and careful like. That way we can both leave here happy and healthy." Simon's voice was tight and full of menace and Jack, knowing that he had no option but to comply, began to walk forward.

The room was hot, far too hot, Steve knew he needed to open a window; he could get his dad to bring him a drink of water, that would be nice. He tried to open his eyes, but they just didn't want to co-operate. Maybe he could just sleep for a little longer, that sounded like the best idea. Steve tried to move, and his shoulder screamed at him. "Dad … Dad, I need you, where are you?"

The room was silent, and Steve felt unaccountably depressed. He needed his dad, and he was always there, but now, when he needed him so much he had gone, gone and deserted him. 

"You know, I can't believe that no one noticed that before." Amanda shook her head and the disgust in her voice was apparent.

"Sweetie, before Steve started working on this case, nobody even knew that there was a link between the murders in the four cities. Why would anybody have looked for this type of connection?"

"I guess so, I'm sorry, Mark… I … I just want him back so badly, and … and I know you do too, and … and I'm … just sorry." Amanda turned her head away, furious with herself for letting her emotions get to the surface. She felt the car draw to a halt and then Mark's arms were around her.

"Honey, listen to me, you don't have to hide your feelings because you think they will upset me, I know you love Steve, you want to do everything you can to get him back, just as I do. Shhh, it's ok." Mark could feel Amanda's tears on his shirt, and as he held her he envied her the ability to let them fall.

"Get him up and able to talk, and then keep him alive until the 8th, otherwise there will be two of you queuing up to see Saint Peter." Simon's words were as cold as the steel on the back of Jack's neck and, trying to ignore the increasing nausea he was experiencing, he moved across to his friend.

"Steve … come on, Steve, it's me, Jack." Jack put the back of his hand on Steve's forehead and was alarmed at the heat radiating back at him. "Where's that first aid kit you said you had?" Jack didn't look round; he knew that any swift movements were a real bad idea right now.

"It's here, just don't use it all up!"

"Gee, you're all heart, aren't you?" Jack braced himself for a blow that didn't come, but the laugh that he heard instead chilled him to the bone, it was a loud, dry sound, and although it normally represented happiness he could hear the insanity there, and he knew that whatever happened he was a dead man.

"Steve, c'mon, Buddy, open your eyes, just for a minute."

"Jack…? What … what are you doing here, where's Dad?" Steve's eyes fluttered and then slowly and painfully they opened. "Oh, God, Jack, it hurts, and I'm cold, so very cold."

"Shhh, it's ok, I'm gonna deal with it, ok… Put this in your mouth, just for a minute." Jack waited and watched his friend as the thermometer did its job, and after checking the seconds on his watch took it back into his fingers carefully. "Hey…!" Jack was roughly pushed aside and Williams grabbed Steve by the arms.

"Where are they? Tell me, Sloan, where the hell are your tablets?"

The scream that came from his best friend's lips was a sound that Jack hoped he would never have to hear again, and he knew that the noise came from Steve's very soul.

"Tell me, Sloan, or otherwise I will kill your friend, do you want me to do that?"

"No … no, leave him, it's me … me you want."

"Then tell me where they are." Simon let go of Steve and he fell exhausted and shivering onto the bed.

"I don't know what you mean … I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, but I don't know. Jack …"

"Your Prozac, the tablets you got delivered from Medi Quick, where are they, I need them?"

"No … I don't have … they were never mine … lied, he lied … Arghhhhh!" Again he was grabbed and again the fire flooded his system. "Dad … help me." Steve's head lolled back and Jack, his senses returning to him as adrenaline flooded his system felt his friend's pulse and then turned to their captor.

"He has a temperature of 104, he's bleeding profusely and his pulse is weak, if you don't let him alone he won't last until dark, let alone another four days!"


	12. A Desperate Plan

**Chapter 12:  A Desperate Plan**

Jack wasn't sure what reaction he'd expected, but it wasn't the one he got. He had spoken in a burst of indignant anger, impulsively, now he wished he had spoken wisely instead and held his breath as Williams just stared at him, his face unreadable. There was a long, painful pause, during which Jack felt perspiration soak the roots of his hair and wondered if throwing himself between Steve and the next bout of violence would really help anything.

But when Williams finally spoke, his hands were still hanging by his sides. "I need it," he pointed out sulkily.

Jack drew in a deep mental breath. _Phew. Okay. So they were still alive. For now. _"You need…?" he ventured tentatively.

"The Prozac." Williams tone was eminently reasonable. "It's part of it. An important part. He doesn't have it on him. I need it."

"Oh. Well…" Jack slid a glance at Steve, itching to examine him more thoroughly and offer some relief. But first he needed to keep Williams from popping off again and doing further damage. He hesitated. Somehow, he didn't think that admitting that the whole thing was just a mix up and that Steve had never ordered through Medi-Quick at all would increase their survival chances. Somehow, he couldn't quite picture Williams apologizing 'my bad' and sending them both home. "Maybe he doesn't take it any more." Williams just stared at him and he continued hastily, "I mean, it's not like insulin or the asthma medication - it's not for a chronic condition. It's just temporary. You take it until you don't need it any more and then you just stop. Maybe Steve stopped."

Williams frown deepened and Jack braced himself for the next onslaught, but after a pause that felt about two weeks long Williams continued seriously, "I didn't know that. What causes it?" Now it was Jack's turn to stare and he elucidated, "I mean, what causes the depression?"

"Oh." Jack reached up to rub at his head, his eyes skittering to Steve again, more urgently this time. "Uh…lots of things…stress…" The world around him seemed to take on a surreal slant - trapped in this airless room, extolling the clinical applications of Prozac to a homicidal maniac while Steve shivered and bled on the bed behind him - but if it kept Williams calm and distracted… "Uh…in times of unusual stress, the body doesn't produce enough serotonin, and, uh…the body responds with…" he gestured nervously, wishing he could sit down - wishing he dared to move at all. "Well, Prozac substitutes…I mean, it stimulates…" he broke off. "What's funny?"

Williams was grinning. "I would have thought I was keeping him plenty stressed enough."

"Oh, heh heh." Jack brayed a short, unconvincing laugh. His fists clenched automatically, but he successfully suppressed the urge to swing. _Later, Jack_, he promised himself. _Right now that won't help anybody._ "Well, maybe he just forgot to renew it."

Williams' frown returned. "I need it," he repeated, then sighed, his gaze drifting to the bed where Steve lay, breathing shallowly. Jack braced himself, but Williams seemed calm enough - almost eerily sentimental. "I was going to make this one special, too," he explained. "You know - because he almost figured it out." He smiled.

Jack felt a rush of nausea that had nothing to do with his lingering concussion. He swallowed it down and managed a wavering smile. "Well, maybe you still can, huh? I mean, all you need is the Prozac and a couple of more days, right?"

Williams gave him the indulgent, pitying look people usually reserved for small, slow children. "It has to be right," he pointed out patiently. "I need the medication, and I need it delivered by Medi-Quick. Prescribed to him." He sighed again. "Now I have to start over."

The floor seemed to tilt under Jack's feet; the perspiration at his hairline spread to chill the back of his neck. "No, no you don't - " he insisted rapidly. God, he needed to make sure the guy had a reason to keep them alive!"I mean, why waste all your hard work? All you need is a prescription, right? Well, I'm a doctor. I could write Steve a prescription for Prozac." Williams expression shifted to one of intense interest and he hurried on, "I mean, I don't have my prescription pad with me, but I could phone one in. I could even do it through Medi-Quick - Steve already has an account there, right?"

Williams chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. "I don't have much money left…"

"Hey, no problem - " _Stalling, stalling_…"I could pay for it. Or - say - " He tried to keep his expression bland and pleasant as a new idea arrowed through him. "Or Steve could. He probably has his credit cards on him." The police would be watching for any activity on Steve's cards by now, wouldn't they? And a prescription for Prozac under Steve's name and through Medi-Quick should set off alarms all over the place_. _"That would be even better, right? If Steve paid for it? That would set everything right again, huh?" He forced a stiff attempt at a bright smile and waited, hardly daring to breathe. With a little luck, Williams would get so caught up in fulfilling his pattern that he'd be a little less careful. Most serial killers made mistakes eventually, didn't they? As the drive got more urgent? He clambered frantically through his brain, trying to remember clearly what Steve had said about that.

Finally Williams interrupted his thoughts. "You'd do that?"

"Sure." Jack was certain his lips would snap under the effort of keeping them pinned in a smile while his heart was all but hammering against his teeth. "Just get me a phone."

Williams nodded, suddenly brisk. "Yeah. That's good. I've got a cell phone. Can't be traced."

_Damn it_. "Great." 

Williams nodded again, his expression now distant, as though caught in some fantasy of his own. Jack didn't even want to try to imagine what about.

A faint groan from the bed made them both glance that way, and Jack winced as he noted the color of Steve's skin. Enough fun and games. He needed to do something, and soon, or one life would already be forfeit. _Okay, Jack. Steady_. "Say, look, I need something from you, though…"

Williams' air of pleasant camaraderie evaporated abruptly, replaced by one of grim suspicion. "What?" he grated.

"Hey, hey - easy - " Jack held up his hands. "I just want some water to clean up his wound - hot if you have it - and a blanket. Nothing big."

Williams frown deepened. "I gave him water."

"Yeah, well," Jack struggled to swallow down the indignation that surged into his throat and to keep his smile engaging. "That's great," his voice sounded hollow to his own ears, "but he needs lots of liquids - y'know - blood loss? And I need to wash that wound and pack it to stop the bleeding."

Williams shifted. He didn't look happy. "Okay…" he conceded reluctantly at last. "I'll get water and the phone."

"And a blanket." Jack held up a hand again as Williams' face darkened. "Look, you can see the guy's freezing and it will help ward off shock. C'mon, you want him to last a couple of more days, right? So everything's perfect?"

Williams stared at Steve for a moment, and Jack felt himself tense, but finally Williams just nodded sullenly. "He's turned out to be a lot of trouble," he grumbled. "That first aid kit cost me almost two hundred dollars."

Jack's grin froze in place and he held himself carefully, not quite sure he could keep from slugging the guy this time. "So, it would be a real shame to waste all that, right?" he forced out between his teeth.

Williams stuck out his lip, but he nodded. "There's a blanket in the First aid kit," he conceded. "I'll get the water."

Jack jerked what he hoped was a jaunty nod. Williams gestured him closer to the bed and carefully opened the door and slipped out. Jack heard the lock click into place behind him. He dropped abruptly to the floor and rested his head on his knees.

God, his head was killing him. Who knew that having a conversation could be so exhausting? But it felt more like dancing on a high wire. One false step and he went down and took Steve down with him. And that wasn't going to happen. Not over his dead…okay, scratch that. Bad choice of analogy.

He let his head drop back against the bed and felt it brush against Steve's hand. Steve stirred, but didn't make a sound. Jack reached up automatically and touched the hand, drew in his breath on a hiss at the heat he felt there. _All right, Stewart – enough lazing around. You've got a patient who could use a little attention._ He sat up straight again, moving carefully to keep the room from doing any of those funny dips and swoops, and reached for the first aid kit. He spotted the sealed bag labeled "thermal blanket" and ripped it open and reached inside.

"Hey, how ya doin', man?" he tossed over his shoulder while he worked. "Look what I got for ya. I know it doesn't look like much but, believe me, it's gonna help." Not surprisingly, there was no answer. He shook out the blanket and carefully unbent his knees. He tucked the blanket over Steve and rested a hand on his face again, grimaced and shook his head. _Crap._

He spotted an abandoned water bottle on the floor by the bed with a couple of inches still in the bottom and picked it up, poking through the kit with his other hand. "See what I got here for ya? Aspirin. These are gonna help a lot. Bring your temperature down a little, kill some of the pain…well, take the edge off, anyway…" He tore the envelope containing two aspirin with his teeth and settled on the edge of the bed, tucking his knee under Steve's good shoulder to prop him up a little. Resting Steve's head against his chest, he poked the two pills between his lips and held his jaw closed, massaging his throat lightly. "Come on now, help me out here. No IV, so I need you to swallow. Good boy…" He felt Steve's throat convulse under his fingers and lifted the bottle to Steve's mouth. "Have a little of this to wash it down. That's better. Boy, those looked so good that I think I'll have a couple myself."

He took his own dry in case Williams neglected to follow through on the water, wanting to save what little he had for Steve. Of course, that speck wasn't enough to do much good, but he was determined to do everything he could anyway. He patted Steve's good shoulder under the blanket and lowered him flat again. "Now, I'm gonna try and clean out that wound with what I got to work with here and that's probably gonna hurt a little, but believe me, it'll feel better in the long run, okay?" Again, there was silence in answer, but Jack found the sound of his own voice comforting. He rummaged through the kit again and pulled out a pair of scissors, gazing regretfully at the blunted ends. _Too bad. Would've made a good weapon_. He poked through some more, collecting things – alcohol pads and emergency dressings and wound closing strips – then moved to Steve's injured side and peeled back the blanket. The blood soaking the sleeve and jacket and bed was more than he wanted to think about, considering that he wouldn't be able to replace any of it, so he tried to focus on the broad tear in the sleeve. The fabric stuck to the wound at spots, so he grabbed his scissors and began to cut the sleeves lengthwise, first the jacket, then the shirt. "This might hurt just a little bit more than I said – " He laid both sleeves open, took a deep breath and pulled, closing his eyes tight when Steve jerked with a muted howl of protest. "Yeah, okay, maybe a lot more." He took a couple of deep breaths to steady himself, one hand instinctively keeping pressure on the wound. "But that was the worst of it. Promise."

He irrigated the wound with the little bit of water he had, clucking his tongue at the threads of cloth he could still see clinging there. When he had picked out everything he could without making things worse, he damped a pad with alcohol and pressed it against the deep, open furrow the wound made across Steve's shoulder. With a faint, inarticulate cry, Steve stiffened, his eyes flying open. Jack made soothing noises, but added a second alcohol-soaked pad on top of the first.  Steve's eyes widened, then slowly rolled back in his head. He went limp.

Jack ran a sleeve over his own face to mop away the perspiration drenching it, then patted at Steve's face with one of the gauze pads. "Yeah, I know – " he muttered apologetically. "The worst being over thing was another lie. Sorry."

There was a rattling at the door and he looked up as Williams pushed it open. He was carrying a couple of bottles of water and a cell phone. Jack was still feeling unnerved by Steve's suffering and what he knew were his wholly inadequate efforts to treat him and burst out impatiently before he could stop himself, "Where's the hot water?"

"I figured that would take too long. This is good enough."

"Too long!" Jack stood, a little more quickly than he should have, he decided, when the walls wavered. "We've got four days! How long does it take to boil a little water?"

The cold, dispassionate look Williams skewered him with made him bite down quickly on his tongue before any more unwise words could escape. "I don't need him healthy, Doc," he pointed out coolly. "I just need him alive."

Jack tried to get his galloping emotions in hand. "Well, you're taking a heck of a chance," he grumbled. Then, sharply, as Williams took a step toward Steve, "What are you doing?"

Williams tossed him a rerun of the pitying, simpleton child look. "Checking for his credit cards."

"Oh," Jack let out a relieved breath. "Better let me do it. I just got him settled." _And he's out like a light, but I'll be damned if you're touching him again, you sick creep._ Gently, he peeled back the blanket. Steve was left handed, so he probably kept his wallet in the left-hand back pocket of his trousers…he slid his hand underneath Steve, trying to disturb him as little as possible, smiling a little in spite of everything. _And it's just as well you're out cold, pal, or I'd be in danger of getting slugged for this. Well, don't worry – you're really not my type. And I never grope and tell._ He tugged the wallet carefully free. Before he could even straighten, Williams snatched it from his hand, opening it and studying the contents with rapt attention.

"Look! A gold card!"

Jack forced his eyes firmly back to Steve to stop himself from grabbing the wallet back. He felt violated for his friend, watching this weirdo paw through his personal belongings, but he figured that was something Steve would be able to survive, no matter how galling. The gunshot wound he was less sure about.

"We'll use this one."

Jack glanced up to see Steve's driver's license and Police ID and a couple of other credit cards spread out on the wooden chair, looked quickly away. His stomach roiled again, and he wasn't sure if it was the concussion or the circumstances. He patted the gauze lightly over Steve's forehead, using the direct contact to remind himself that there was a good reason to keep hold of his temper. "If you know the phone number, I'll place the prescription. Adding an antibiotic would be a good idea, too. He could really use it."

"No," Williams sounded cross. "It has to be the same as before. Just the same."

"Maybe under a separate order – "

"No!"

Jack sighed. _It had been worth a shot._ He heard the faint beeping of a number speed dialing and arranged the thermal blanket around Steve's neck, eyes fixed on his face. _Just hang on, man – I'm trying to call the cavalry_. A cell phone was thrust under his nose, and he took it, pushing it against his ear.

A brisk, professional voice announced, "Medi-Quick." Jack took a deep breath and began his order.

"Go home, Doctor." Captain Blackwell's voice was unyielding, though not unkind. "Believe it or not, we do know what we're doing. Go home and get some rest. I'll be in touch as soon as we know something." He strode purposefully toward the glassed in office, leaving a clear message that the conversation was over in his wake.

Mark had to hustle hard to catch up. "Then maybe you could let me take the files with me? A connection occurred to me that I think could be important. If you'd let me take the files for Denver and St. Louis – " Captain Blackwell didn't even break his stride, but Mark continued doggedly, "I'll keep you apprised of anything I discover. I'm certain I'm right. I just need to see – "

Captain Blackwell did not slow down, but this time he sighed. "You're grasping at straws, Doctor. Go home and let us do our job."

For a second Mark's face sagged, deepening the lines of sorrow and exhaustion. It was more than Amanda could take.

"You aren't even listening," she accused. "Twenty-three people are dead and you're just standing around, waiting for it to become twenty-four! I can't believe that at this point you wouldn't be willing to listen to just about anything that might help! To follow any possible connection and lead, no matter how faint, even if it happens to come from a civilian! Especially when the twenty-fourth is one of your own men!"

The Captain stopped walking so abruptly that it was all Amanda could do to keep from careening into him. The look he pinned her with was so cold and steady that for a second she wished that she _had_ taken Mark and gone home – then she remembered the stakes and set her jaw defiantly, stiffening her shaking knees and staring back.

"I care very much about the fate of _all_ my men, Dr. – Bentley, isn't it?"

Amanda shivered involuntarily at his tone's frigid edge. "That's right." She hated the little tremble that invaded her voice, but stood her ground anyway.

"I take the safety of the men under my protection very seriously. I take the safety of the _citizens _under my protection very seriously. I do not, even for one second, ever forget that is paramount. And because I take it so seriously, Dr. Bentley, it is vital that I focus; sift through thousands of clues to separate the dross from the gold and to act, without getting distracted by distraught, though well-meaning, amateurs who are too easily led astray by their emotions."

"Now, we are conducting this investigation as quickly and accurately and thoroughly as we can, and believe it or not, we employ a tried and true methodology, backed by the most current technology, that has proven successful time and time again. If you feel that you have any relevant leads or suggestions, you are more than welcome to leave them with the lead investigators for follow up. Be my guest. Then go home."

"But you still haven't caught him yet. And your lead investigator is missing." Even Amanda was shocked at the temerity of her outburst, but she couldn't quite bring herself to back down. She crossed her arms over her chest to hide the way they were shaking and tried to look confident.

The shadow that passed over Captain Blackwell's face told her that she had struck a nerve. The gaze he turned on her this time was one that had frozen many a scarred veteran officer in his tracks, but Amanda didn't drop her stare, praying that he couldn't see how scary she found him.

Blackwell's brows lifted the slightest bit when she didn't budge, then he opened his mouth to retort. Amanda expected a burly police officer to arrive any second to escort them out, and was trying to decide whether or not she should put up a fight, when a voice broke in.

"Captain?"

Frowning at the interruption, Blackwell glanced over his shoulder, scanning the Squad Room. His eyes stopped on a young officer staring intently at his computer screen. "Rutgers?" he prompted, a little impatiently.

Rutgers' eyes never left the screen. "I'm showing activity on one of Sergeant Sloan's credit cards."

Captain Blackwell was across the room and by his side in two strides. "What?" he demanded.

"Where?"

"Captain?" A voice from another part of the Squad Room snagged his attention before Rutgers could answer, and they all swiveled their heads to locate another officer holding a telephone receiver, covering the mouthpiece with his hand. "I have Medi-Quick on the line. They just received an order for a prescription delivery for Sgt. Sloan – for Prozac."

"Well, looks like it's just you and me, pal." Jack stretched out his legs along the dusty floor. His seat on the old boards was relatively comfortable, and he had a feeling that the lone wooden chair was not. He leaned his head back against the bed. "So, how do you usually pass the time in these kinds of situations? I didn't think to grab a deck of cards when I was being abducted, so can't even play solitaire here in captivity. And I already read the warranty for the First aid kit. Twice. Riveting stuff." He was used to his one-sided conversation by now. He figured that even if Steve couldn't respond, in whatever state of unconsciousness he was enjoying he might recognize a familiar voice and find it comforting. Besides, it passed the time. And if he could pass the time and not think too much, then he wouldn't have an opportunity to focus on the fact that he was terrified.

"So, how's that aspirin doing, huh? You seem a little cooler. Not that that's saying anything, I guess. You know, I don't think I'd make much of a battlefield doctor? I'm really missing all the big machines and miracle drugs and handy equipment. Not to mention the cute nurses. And I kind of miss knowing for sure that I'm not introducing some hideous infection every time I touch a patient. I think you're headed for a doozy, by the way. Williams wouldn't let me get you an antibiotic. I did try. Sorry." He was more than sorry, he was sick with anger about it, but he didn't see that explaining that would help anything. "Anyway, nothing to read, nothing to do – not even a pen so I can make some of those prisoner's hash marks on the walls, huh? Williams is off to pick up the Prozac, and we're just sittin' here. Seems like at the very least we should be trying to escape."

"Sounds…good."

The voice was so low and unexpected that for a minute Jack was sure his mind was playing tricks on him. He turned to look at the long figure stretched out on the bed, noticed that he could make out a sliver of blue between the heavy lids. "Steve?" he ventured hesitantly. He watched Steve's Adam's apple bob in a swallow.

"What…exactly did you have in mind?"

"Steve!" Jack crowed. This time there was no mistaking it, even though the voice was faint and feeble. He felt a rush of relief - not only because Steve talking seemed like a good sign, but because someone to share the situation with, hopeless as it was, somehow made it a little less frightening. He picked up the thermometer and swung around on his knees, studying Steve's face more closely. "How do you feel, man? Scratch that, stupid question. Here – take this for a minute –" He slid the slender wand into Steve's mouth and waited, then removed it, tilting it to the meager light to get a better look. He made a face. _Still not great. But a little better. At least Steve seemed lucid. _"Well, that's more like it!" He smiled with forced cheer.

The look Steve gave him told him that he wasn't fooling anyone. "Williams?" he whispered.

Jack frowned as the word ended on a long, sighing breath. _Blood loss. Not good_. "He's out fetching the Prozac from Medi-Quick. I don't know where – he did that part of the order himself. I was sort of hoping he'd have them deliver it here, but I guess he's not that dumb."

Steve gave a small nod. "How long…?"

"Don't know. But I think he'd want them as far away from here as possible, don't you?"

Steve shifted his head in a gesture that Jack figured was meant to simulate a shrug, then scraped at the mattress with his heels, struggling for a grip with his left hand.

"No – no – none of that – " Jack was on his feet in an instant. "I'll get you whatever you want, but just lie still, okay? I finally got that bleeding slowed down. You don't need to start it up again." He pushed gently at the center of Steve's chest to keep him in place.

Steve closed his eyes and took another slow breath. He opened them again and looked around him. "So…what's the plan…?"

"Plan? I don't have a plan! I thought you'd have a plan - you're the detective!"

Steve breathed a short laugh. "And you're the one who wanted to…play detective. How…do you like it so far…?"

Jack peered under the blanket at the fresh bandages, checking for new bleeding. "I liked it fine until they started with the guns. I'm not liking the guns."

"Yeah." Steve's eyes dropped closed. "I hear that." Jack thought he was out again, but after a second he murmured, without opening his eyes, "No knob. Hinges on the…other side of the door…"

Jack was arranging the sling he had found in the first aid kit. "I know. I hope you didn't mean that to be good news?" He thought he almost saw Steve smile.

"Hinges on the other side…good for…kicking…door swings out…"

Jack sat back on his haunches, letting his elbows rest on the bed next to Steve. "You guys really do that stuff? I mean, that really works?"

Steve gave a quick grimace of pain, shifting uncomfortably. "On…knob locks. Not…deadbolts."

"Yeah, well, I don't know what kind of lock he's got on it. What do you do for a deadbolt?"

Steve sighed, trying to grab a breath. "Shoot it."

"Oh, great. What, do they actually teach a class in this stuff or something? Television police tactics 101?"

"Something…like that…"

Jack snorted. "That's the problems with you cops. No finesse."

Steve hunched deeper into the thermal blanket. "…Better…ideas…?"

"What, better than kicking? Which neither one of us is really up to right now? Anything would be better. Why, was a time in my life I could've made my way through any lock around with only…" His eyes fell on the wooden chair, which was still covered with Steve's credit cards and ID and the first aid kit scissors. He trailed off, suddenly thoughtful.

The silence went on for so long that Steve opened his eyes and turned his head toward him. "…Jack…?"

Jack absentmindedly patted the closest knee under the blanket, still studying the paraphernalia on the chair. "You know what, my friend? I think we may be about to benefit from the ill gotten knowledge of my misspent youth."

A silence followed the officer's announcement, then Captain Blackwell snapped to attention. "Briefing in five! And I'll need a volunteer to be the Medi-Quick delivery man!"

"I'll do it, sir."

Captain Blackwell identified the voice of Officer Fischer and nodded approvingly. "Well, you'd be perfect, Fischer, except for one thing."

Officer Fischer's face fell. "Sir?"

The Captain looked sympathetic. "He's seen you, Fischer. He's knows you're a cop. Maybe he wouldn't recognize you, but that's a chance we can't afford to take. I'm sorry."

Fischer nodded, crestfallen.

"What about me?"

Blackwell's eyes traveled to Saul Elliot, his brows lifted slightly in surprise. "A little long in the tooth to be a delivery boy, aren't you, Elliot?"

Saul stood up straight. "The mean age of the average Medi-Quick delivery person is thirty-two, Captain, with the youngest being eighteen and the oldest fifty-four. Sixty-seven percent are male. Thirty-three percent are female. While the largest percentage are of Latino descent, a significant portion are also Caucasian or African American."

Blackwell's brows rose the tiniest bit further. "Been doing your homework."

"Yes, sir. I think I'm well prepared for the job."

Blackwell studied him. "You understand how crucial this assignment is, Elliot. It has to be done clean, without any guilt or need for redemption clogging up the works. If you can't keep your head, tell me now. Sloan shouldn't be sacrificed as a sop to your conscience."

Saul reddened, but met the captain's eyes steadily. "No, sir. I just think I'm the best choice for the job."

"You haven't appeared at any of the crime scenes? Remember, Williams was taking pictures. If he could have seen you then I can't risk it."

Elliot shook his head. "No, sir. I haven't."

Blackwell nodded slowly. "Then you have an assignment. I want everyone in the briefing room, please." He turned, suddenly remembering his two guests. "Dr. Sloan, as you heard, we have a significant lead. I promise you, I'll be in touch."

Mark had been staring straight ahead with his mouth slightly ajar, thoughts racing behind his eyes, trying to organize them into coherent, useful order, but now he blinked and faced the Captain squarely.

"Yes," he agreed calmly, but definitely. "You will. Because I'm going with you."

"Admit it. You're impressed."

"Dazzled… B&Es always…impress me."

"You're just jealous cause I did it without any of those He-man tactics." Jack's smile grew to a grin as he gently swung the door to and fro. "Slick as a whistle. No kicking, no shooting. You cops could learn something from felons." He put down the scissors and credit card and moved to the bed quickly despite his joking tone, sliding a supporting arm behind Steve, who was struggling to sit up.

Steve leaned into him, panting. "Very smooth," he conceded breathlessly. "Worth at least…two to five."

Jack eased him upright, helping him shift his legs so that they hung over the side of the bed. "You think that's good? You should see me jack a car."

"Don't ever…show me that," Steve clung to Jack's shirt with his good hand, digging his teeth into his lower lip as he rose slowly to his feet. Once he was standing, he paused again to find his balance. "I'd hate…to have to arrest you."

"Oh, it would only be a demonstration…" Jack kept his tone light as he guided him toward the door, trying not to think about how grey Steve's face had gone. "Don't suppose we'll be able to hail a cab? Or, it's gotta be getting close to dark by now. Maybe we can just hide out."

Steve didn't answer this time, grabbing the door lintel for support, and Jack glanced at his face once more, then at the bright new red blotch blossoming on the white bandage. He frowned. They may have the door open, but they were still a long way from freedom. And this didn't look too promising. "Come on," he coaxed encouragingly, "Just a couple of steps." _Okay, a lot of steps, but let's think positive. _Steve was sagging heavily against him and Jack tightened his grip on his waist, trying not to wince. It didn't help that he wasn't in the best condition himself. He shook his head. _Hell of an escape. The gimp leading the gimp._

They reached the top of the stairs and Jack stared down them. He didn't remember them looking quite so long when he had come up with Williams…he cleared his throat. "Watch your step - these are a little steep…" Steve stumbled on the first step, but seemed to make the second all right. Jack glanced at him again and tried to take more of his weight. _God, it looked like he was about ready to pass out. Don't pass out here, Steve, this would be a really bad place_…He jerked unexpectedly as Steve missed a step and clutched at him for balance. For a horrible second Jack was sure they were going to tumble down the stairs together in a tangle of arms and legs, then he managed to dig his shoulder into the wall and his elbow into the stair rail and stood, steadying them and rediscovering his equilibrium. His arm and shoulder were drenched with Steve's sweat and he could feel him trembling violently against him. "Okay, okay, let's take a second…" He gingerly lowered Steve to a stair and sat down beside him, trying to get a better look. Steve had his hand over his face and was rubbing it back and forth as though that could somehow bring him a higher level of alertness. When he looked up, Jack didn't like what he saw in his eyes. "You okay?" he asked uneasily.

Steve watched him steadily, measuringly, and Jack pulled out one of the water bottles he had stuck in his jacket pocket. "Here - take a swallow of this - it'll help."

Steve obediently took a drink, then let the bottle dangle from his hand. He had a thoughtful, peculiar expression that Jack couldn't quite read. "I can't do it, Jack," he said quietly at last.

Jack gritted his teeth. "Sure you can," he insisted with forced cheer, slipping his arm around his waist again and preparing to rise. "You just needed a little rest. Now come on." Steve didn't budge, and Jack had to admit to himself that for such a lean man, he sure was hard to lift. "Come on, Steve - " his voice grew more urgent. "Don't be a baby. We gotta move."

Steve rubbed a hand across his forehead, but his eyes were surprisingly calm, if a little unfocused. "_You_ have to. You have to…get help."

Jack ignored him, hooking a hand through his belt and trying to heft him upright without hurting him. "Uh uh. No way. We go together. Now come on. We can't waste time."

"Right. So…go."

Jack wanted to shake him. "I'm not leaving you, so don't even think about it. Come on - you can do this. Let's move it." Steve slumped into the wall, shook his head. Jack's hands clenched into fists.

Steve squeezed his eyes shut, his good hand cradling his injured arm, and Jack felt a frisson of alarm. "Hey, come on man, don't pass out - you still with me? We gotta get going."

"…know…I'm right…"

Jack turned his head away, staring down the steep bank of stairs. He _did_ know it - had seen all the signs that Steve's trying to press on would be every bit as deadly to him as staying, knew that he couldn't possibly manage the length of the attic stairs, followed by the house stairs, then the street, for God knew how long. And Jack probably couldn't manage carrying him, even if he'd been a hundred percent. He wasn't. He ground his teeth against each other. "I'm not leaving you," he croaked stubbornly.

Steve eyes fluttered for a second, then he took a deep breath and forced them open again. "Jack, I'm not…trying to be a hero here. I'd like to live. Figure…you're the best shot for both of us." He squinted at him through fever-clouded irises.

Jack hesitated. He was keenly aware of the fleeting time, but he couldn't seem to make himself move. His heart beat a frantic tattoo. _Don't make me do this, don't make me, don't make me…_

Steve sighed and touched his arm. "Here's…what I'm thinking…" he whispered slowly, "…one of these rooms…a bathroom maybe…must have an inside…door lock. I can…bunker inside…locked…maybe he won't even realize I'm not gone. If he does, it will still take him some time to break…in. Give you time to ride to …the rescue…" Steve broke off abruptly, panting and spent from his long speech.

Jack reached up automatically to blot his face. "That's not bad," he admitted reluctantly. Steve smiled a little. Jack pressed his fingers lightly against the pulse in Steve's neck and counted, then swore. He kicked the wall, immediately regretted it. He glared at the stairs under his feet. "You'll lock yourself in?"

Steve nodded.

Jack squirmed. "And if I leave you the water, you'll drink it? Every time you think of it. Even if you think you don't need it."

Steve took a deep breath. "I'll - do whatever. Now go. You're…wasting time."

"Let me get you settled first."

"Jack - "

"Then promise me you'll really lock yourself in! There has to be a bathroom on the next floor…" He could feel that Steve's temperature was on the rise again and wished he'd had the forethought to pocket more of the aspirin.

Steve nodded wearily. "…go…"

Jack rose shakily to his feet. "You promise?"

Steve nodded again.

Jack swore again, his stomach burning as though something was tearing at his insides. He took a step, felt a faint tug on his sleeve and looked down. Steve was grasping it lightly in his fingers.

"Jack - my Dad - "

"Oh, no - " Jack jerked his sleeve away. "Oh, no, you don't. Don't you dare ask me to give him a message or to look out for him or whatever you have in mind, because the answer is no."

Steve dropped his hand. "Just…in case…"

Jack shook his head fiercely. "Uh uh. I'm not gonna do it, Steve. I'm not. If you want to tell Mark something or want someone to look after him, then you'd just better make up your mind to live through this thing, cause I'm not gonna do it for you. Think about that if you get any ideas about cashing in your chips before I can get back to you." He felt Steve's forehead and forced the water bottle into his hand. "Don't wait too long to hide yourself. I'll be back as soon as I can. I mean it, Steve - I'm comin' back - and if I find you dead, I'll never forgive you."

A suggestion of a smile slid over Steve's face.

Jack smiled reluctantly in return. "You want help getting to your feet?"

Steve nodded.

Jack cautiously guided him to his feet, helping him use the wall for support. He squeezed his uninjured arm. "You take care, man."

Steve gave him a weak thumb's up. Jack started down the stairs, turned at the bottom, his heart savaged by the sight of the lone figure stumbling uncertainly in slow motion down the staircase, pushing heavily against the wall. He dug his nails into his palms. _Steve is right. It's his only chance. It's your only chance. So do it_.

"I'll be back," he insisted, then headed down the hall to the next set of stairs. "I'll be back," he repeated under his breath. "I promise."

Mark leaned against the ambulance, his eyes watching the smudge of smoke still mushrooming over the building. Fire engines, ambulances, paramedic vans, criss-crossed the asphalt and lapped onto the sidewalk, straddling pools of puddling water, making the street virtually impassable. Everything seemed under control now. Well. Almost everything. He hung his head.

"I'm sorry, Doctor." He didn't bother to look up at the sound of Captain Blackwell's voice, just nodded numbly. He knew he was sorry - knew they were all sorry. It just didn't change anything. "He was ready for us, that's for sure. Whole thing was just a distraction. His playing field. Again."

"But the potential loss of life was still real," Mark murmured. He remembered the sight of the sudden fireball on the roof of the bustling Jewish Community Center at one end of the block, the almost simultaneous burst of flame from the 24 hour copy store at the other end, the one that was always crowded with college students pulling late nights to finish their papers, shuddered. This man truly did not care who he killed, or how many.

"We're sending an investigator in, but we're pretty sure it's arson. Time delayed, maybe."

Mark nodded tiredly. "Not hard to do. Plenty of homemade options." Brilliant, really. Police were emergency personnel and had immediately left their posts to respond. Other emergency vehicles had poured into the area. By the time the crisis was over and the confusion somewhat settled, Detective Elliot had been found, unconscious, his package gone. Mark glanced at him, seated in the open ambulance door while someone treated the gash on the back of his head. He looked despondent, humiliated. Despite everything, Mark's heart went out to him. "It wasn't your fault," he offered quietly. "There was nothing you could have done. You're lucky to be alive."

Elliot's face told him that he felt anything but lucky as he stared at the hands dangling limply between his knees. "I never even saw him," he confessed. "I couldn't even tell you what happened. One minute I was on my way to deliver, and the next…" he trailed off unhappily. "He's sure playing us for chumps."

Mark watched the crowds of survivors that had been evacuated from the burning buildings - families and young children and senior citizens who had gathered for innocent entertainment - and tried to conceive of such a wanton disregard for human life. He failed. He sucked in his breath.

"There is some good news," he insisted determinedly. Elliot met his eyes doubtfully, and he explained, "We know he's still alive. He wouldn't be bothering with the Prozac if he weren't. There'd be no point."

Elliot seemed to digest this, then nodded slowly, his expression lightening the tiniest bit. Mark felt Amanda squeeze his arm reassuringly, and patted her hand lightly in return. He frowned suddenly. "Detective Elliot."

"Saul. Please."

"Saul." Mark screwed up his face, thinking. "Are you still taking Prozac?"

Elliot started to shake his head, was stopped by the firm hands of the ambulance attendant and instead said, "No. Not for a while. My doctor told me I'd wake up one morning and decide that I just didn't need it any more, and that's what happened. Finished it not too long ago. They like you to come off of it gradually."

Mark furrowed his brow. "So your prescription lapsed."

Captain Blackwell was watching him, trying to follow his train of thought. "What are you getting at, Doctor?"

Mark looked at him directly for the first time, his face filling with growing dread. "Steve doesn't take Prozac," he pointed out. "And Saul doesn't have a prescription being delivered in his name. So the question is - where did the order come from? Who gave Williams a Prozac prescription for Steve?"


	13. Lingering Questions

**Chapter 13:  Lingering Questions**

As the door shut, with a click which seemed to echo around the empty house, Steve turned and looked at the stairs in front of him. In his present, weakened, state it felt like he was looking down from the summit of Mount Everest. Gritting his teeth and holding onto the rail all the way down, Steve took his time and finally reached base camp, the first storey landing. His features were contorted in agony, sweat ran in rivulets down his torso and he had to lean against the wall to wait for the whole house to stop swimming. When his vision finally cleared, Steve looked around and saw four doors facing him. Making his way towards one of them, Steve hoped against hope that he was heading for the right one as he didn't think he had the strength for a prolonged search.

For the first time in what seemed like months luck was on Steve's side and the door he opened not only was the bathroom, but the door had a lock and a bolt on the inside. Turning the key in the lock and sliding the bolt as far across as it would go, Steve then took the time to take in his new surroundings. The bathroom was very small, with room only for a bath, toilet, hand basin and a glass fronted cabinet on the wall. Staring into the mirror, Steve was shocked at his appearance. His face was pale, his eyes had sunk back into their sockets and lines of pain had appeared on either side of his mouth. Reaching out he opened the cabinet door and was surprised, not to mention pleased, to find a full aspirin container on the bottom shelf. Tipping two out into the palm of his shaking hand, Steve threw them to the back of his mouth and washed them down with a handful of water from the tap. He was just about to close the door when he caught sight of a glint of silver in the bottom left hand corner. Reaching out, he picked up a pair of plain nail scissors. Turning them over in his hand, Steve looked at them and for the first time in a while felt a glimmer of hope. A small pair of nail scissors was not the best weapon in the world but, if the element of surprise were big enough, they had the potential to inflict an incapacitating blow.  Deciding that he ought to conserve whatever strength he had left, Steve sat carefully down on the floor making sure that his shoulder, by now a screaming mass of hot needles, didn't touch anything. Leaning his head against the cool porcelain of the toilet, he shut his eyes barely hearing the explosions in the near distance.

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Jack closed the door quietly behind him and moved into the shadows from where he took a moment to get his bearings. A small grin flitted across his features as he looked around, the area was very familiar to him. In fact, he could almost navigate the streets in his sleep as a previous girlfriend had lived not far from where he now stood and he had spent many happy, not to mention exhausting, nights here. Like Steve, Jack felt an elevation in his spirits, maybe they had been given the edge over Williams that they badly needed, and he moved off with renewed purpose. He hadn't travelled very far when two, almost simultaneous, blasts ripped through the silence of the night, causing Jack to jump violently. He immediately wished that he hadn't as it caused a sharp pain to pierce his head and he momentarily had to lean against the wall until the throbbing subsided. When he could move again, Jack looked up and saw two plumes of smoke rising high into the sky a few blocks from where he stood. Realising that, in a very short space of time, the area would be filled with police; Jack decided to make his way there. Pushing himself off from the wall Jack started to walk in the direction of the smoke.

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Away from the flashing light and pooling water a figure stood in the shadows watching, the action and the flames reflecting in his eyes giving them an almost fiendish expression. Tucked deeply into the pocket of his jacket was the package that he had taken from the unconscious Saul Elliot. Williams was feeling totally relaxed, the ritual was back on track. Somewhere in the deepest, darkest recesses of his mind, Williams heard his father's voice calling out in desperation for his medication. He shuddered a little, but not even the memory of his father with a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead could dim the fervour that he was feeling now. The official verdict into his father's death had been suicide due to severe depression, but Simon knew they were wrong. He knew that the reason his father had killed himself was because of the tablets he had taken, tablets that he had access to only because of that damn medical courier service. If they hadn't been so accessible, his father would have had to snap out of it and get better himself, at least that was what his mother had told him. Next to his body, the police had found an almost empty pill box. Only six tablets remained from the full container which had been delivered that morning. Obviously his father hadn't wanted to take any chances.

Thrusting the memory to the back of his mind, Williams moved quietly through the crowd back towards the house. He was very confident in what he was doing and it didn't occur to him that his prisoners would think about, or be capable of, escaping so he didn't notice a figure duck into a doorway as he walked towards him.

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By the time Jack reached the site of the first explosion the area was, as he had suspected, filled with police cars not to mention fire trucks and paramedic vehicles. The adrenaline which had filled his body since his exit from the house was finally ebbing away and he was beginning to feel ill. Fervently hoping that someone would listen to him, Jack moved forward when, to his horror, he saw a familiar figure striding towards him. He ducked back into a doorway until Williams had passed by and then walked towards the tape barrier. With Steve's prospective murderer on his way back to the house, it was imperative that he talk to someone.

It was one of the uniformed officers detailed to keep an eye on the ever growing crowd that spotted him first. A tall, dark haired young man was walking slowly towards him, stumbling occasionally, making him seem like he was a little drunk. Officer Gray took a step forward, his hand automatically reaching for his gun in anticipation of any problem.

"Keep back from the line, Sir," he said, politely but firmly, as Jack came to a halt right in front of him.

"I need to speak to whoever is in charge," Jack answered.

"And why would that be?" Gray returned, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"I have important information," Jack replied.

"Everyone is a little busy at the moment," Gray replied, ever the master of the understatement, "Perhaps you would like to attend a police station later."

"Later will be too late," Jack snapped, "By that time Steve Sloan may well be dead."

Martin Gray had begun to turn away but, at Jack's final words, he turned back.

"What did you say?" he exclaimed.

"I said that if you don't take me to someone in charge, Steve Sloan WILL die," Jack responded, his tone a little firmer knowing that he was being taken seriously.

Lifting one of the barriers out of Jack's way, Martin Gray allowed the young man to precede him. He ushered him along the sidewalk to where Captain Blackwell stood with Mark Sloan. As the two men drew near, Jack heard Mark saying, "Who gave Williams a Prozac prescription for Steve?"

"I did, Mark," Jack answered quietly.

"Jack!" Mark exclaimed, "How did you get here?"

"Williams." Jack was succinct, "He snatched me from your place and brought me to where he has Steve."

Grabbing hold of Jack by the shoulders and almost shaking him in his eagerness to find out the answer to his next questions, "Did you see Steve? Is he alright?"

Gently disengaging himself from his friend's grip, Jack answered, "He's alive, but he has lost a lot of blood. He didn't feel strong enough, so he made me leave whilst he found some place to hide in the house."

"Then we'd better get to him," Mark said firmly, "Show me where he is."

"Take it easy, Dr. Sloan," Captain Blackwell tried to calm Mark down, "We need to get organised."

"You'd better be quick. I just saw Williams on his way back to the house. He passed by me just before I saw this guy here." Jack said, jerking a finger in the direction of Officer Gray.

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Striding confidently along the sidewalk, Simon Williams made his way back to his rented house. Occasionally he dipped his hand into his jacket pocket and curled his fingers around the package there. For a while, after he had been forced to shoot Lieutenant Sloan, he had worried that the ritual had been thrown irrevocably off course. Now though, the situation was back on track and he felt a sense of calmness, like everything was going to be okay.

Opening the front door, Williams stepped inside and looked around him. Instinctively he felt that something was wrong and, without even taking his jacket off, he ran up the stairs towards the attic. Despite his eagerness to get them both out of the their incarceration, Jack had had the forethought to shut the door behind them, so Williams had to dig the key from out of his trouser pocket before he was able to open the door.

The door swung open on noiseless hinges to reveal an empty room. Swearing profusely, Williams turned and ran back up the stairs to the entrance hall and looked around him, trying to decide what to do. Taking a deep breath, Williams attempted to calm his racing mind and make himself think. Reasoning, accurately, that Sloan would not have the physical energy to leave the house even if his friend had, Williams turned to look at the only other route open to the injured man………the stairs.

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It was the click of the front door closing that brought Steve back to full wakefulness. Without thinking he shifted position and immediately wished he hadn't as the pain, which the medication had reduced in intensity, came back to full power with a vengeance. Hoping that the groan which was wrenched from him hadn't been audible downstairs, Steve slowly rose to his feet and moved to stand behind the door, holding the scissors in his left hand.

Listening to the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs, Steve hoped that Jack had found someone to listen to him and was on his way back with help. The footsteps reached the top of the stairs and Steve heard them move towards one door, then another. Finally, the sound stopped outside the bathroom and the handle was rattled.

"Not very intelligent, Sloan," Williams said, "It won't take me long to break this door down. The best thing you can do is to come out."

Steve gave no answer, figuring that every minute he could hold Williams at bay was a minute closer to rescue. At least, he thought to himself, that was what he hoped.

"Come out, Sloan!" bellowed Williams, his earlier mood of confidence disappearing in a flash.

From inside the bathroom, Steve heard Williams take a step backwards and the next second the door shuddered as Williams kicked out at it. Fortunately, whilst Williams had a clever mind, his physique was nowhere near as well defined as Steve's and the door remained intact. Steve knew though, that whatever shape Williams was in, it would not remain that way forever and decided to move away from behind the door, and retreated a little. Again and again the door rattled on its hinges as Williams did his best to gain entry.  Steve watched anxiously, as the hinges began to loosen and the door started to quiver ominously.

"Come on, Jack." Steve whispered breathlessly to himself, "Where the hell are you?"

Just as Steve finished his sentence the hinges finally succumbed to the constant pressure that they were being put under and the door whipped open to reveal Williams standing, breathing heavily, in the doorway. It was obvious he was in a towering rage causing Steve, despite his best efforts not to, to retreat a little at the same time as taking a tighter hold on the nail scissors.

Moving quickly forward, Williams reached out to grab hold of Steve's injured shoulder and as he did so, Steve brought his left hand round and stabbed him, as hard as he could, in the groin which was the only place he could reach. Williams jerked back in pain and, for the moment, forgot that Steve was there. Taking the opportunity and, mustering all the strength that he had left in him, Steve made for the door. He was half way across the landing when Williams caught up with him. The injury had slowed him down a little, but the glancing blow he managed to deal Steve was enough to push him off balance and send him tumbling down the stairs. The edge of the third stair caught his wound and the scream that was wrenched from him was the last sound he heard.

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He tried to ignore the insistent voice in his ear and turned his head away from the sound, but the voice still kept on talking.

"Go 'way," he muttered.

"Steve?" the tone of the voice changed, becoming tinged with hope.

Struggling, Steve opened his eyes and looked around him. Contrary to his expectations he wasn't back in the attic but was lying in a hospital bed and the first face that he saw belonged to the voice in his ear, his dad.

"Dad?" was the only word he managed to utter before blackness overcame him once more, only this time he slept.

¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬

Several days later, Steve was able to sit up in bed and insisting on some answers.

"Okay, Steve," Mark said, after another argument with his son.

"What happened?" Steve asked, "I am assuming that you reached me in time but that is all."

"Jack managed to get to us," Mark answered, flinging a grateful smile at his young protégée, "and led us to where Williams was keeping you."

"And………….?" Steve prompted.

"They found you lying in a heap at the base of the staircase bleeding profusely. There was no sign of Williams and they assumed that he had heard them coming and made a run for it." Mark continued.

"Have they captured him yet?" Steve asked.

"In a manner of speaking," Jack responded, from the far side of the bed.

"I'm not up to riddles, Jack," Steve retorted, "have they caught Williams or not?"

"He's dead, Steve," Mark replied.

"Dead!" exclaimed Steve, "I take it he wouldn't give himself up voluntarily."

"He didn't have that opportunity," Mark said, then asked, "Did you manage to injure him at all?"

"I caught him once with a small pair of nail scissors," Steve answered, "but surely that wouldn't have been enough to kill him?"

"Ordinarily, no," Amanda explained, entering the room in time to hear Steve's question, "but somehow you managed to nick his femoral artery with them and he bled to death. The police found his car crashed a few miles up PCH. I don't think he realised how serious his injury was."

"Hang on," Steve asked, "surely a femoral artery injury spurts. He can't have failed to notice that."

"If it had been caught with a larger blade, you are right," Mark answered, "but those nail scissors were only small and it would have taken longer for him to bleed out."

Steve sighed, "So we will never know why he killed all those people."

"No, we won't," Mark agreed, "but at least we know he won't be killing any more."

"Very true," Steve answered.

"And we did help, didn't we?" Jack put in eagerly.

Slowly turning his head to look at his friend, Steve replied, "I suppose so."

"Suppose so!" Jack said in tones of mock injury, "I get kidnapped by a serial killer, tend to your wounds, escape, bring back life saving help and all you can say is that you suppose so!"

"Jack," Steve's voice was quiet and Jack looked down at his friend in sudden concern, "Thank you. I know that without your help I probably would be dead by now. I am truly grateful."

Jack's eyes gleamed with what both Mark and Steve took to be unshed tears, until he spoke, "So that means we can help you on another case, huh?"

Mark's shout of laughter echoed down the hall. He knew that, whatever Steve said, that they had become a team, a team which would work together many times in the future.

THE END………………………or is it just the beginning?


End file.
